LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
iiptp. Gnjujrig^t ^o 

UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. 



THE HAPPY ISLES, 



AND 



Other Poems. 






i 

s. h^m/byers. 



+++ 






OCT 9 
3 



kiSU: V 



NEW YORK: 

CHARLES L. WEBSTER & CO. 
1891. 






Copyright, 1891, 
By CHARLES L. WEBSTER & CO. 

{All rights reserved.) 



Press of 

Jenkins & McCowan, 

224 Centre St., N. Y. 



A few of the poems in this volume were 
first printed in magazines, and some were 
contained in a previous volume, but many 
appear now for the first time. 



TO MY WIFE 



THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS LOVINGLY 
IXSCKIBED. 



CONTENTS 



The Happy Isles, 
Sherman's March to the Sea, 
The Ballad of Columbus, 
The First Kiss, . 

Philip, 

Margery Brown, . 

News at the White House, 

The Reveille, 

Satd a Song-Bird, 

The Guard on the Volga, . 

The Sea, 

Auf Wiedersehen ! . • . 
The Tramp op Sherman's Army, 
The Ballad of Quintin Massy, 
Baby Helene, .... 
The Dwarf of Mitylene, 

Echo, 

The Kiss of Jupiter, . 
On a Fair Dead Girl, 
My White Bose and Bed, 
The Marriage of the Flowers, 
Boom for the Angels, 



PAGE 
11 

24 
27 
42 
44 
54 
56 
61 
63 
65 
68 
70 
72 
77 
86 
90 
94 
98 
103 
105 
107 
113 



X CONTENTS. 




If You Want a Kiss, Why. Take It, 


I'AUE 

. 115 


The Mowing, 


117 


Jamie's Coming o'ek the Mook, 


. 119 


Maid and Butterfly, 


121 


0, How Shall I Sing to My Fair One ? . 


. 122 


Under the Eose, 


124 


Maiden, so Slender and Fair, 


. 127 


In Llbby, 


130 


My Violet, 




There is a Maiden Whom I Know, 


133 


In a Vineyard, 


. 135 


Song, 


136 


IONE, 


. 137 


A Centennial Idyl, 


139 


Gypsy Gipl's Song, 


. 151 


The Nation's Dead, 


152 


Ariadne, ....... 


. 156 


Notes, . 


1G0 



THE HAPPY ISLES. 

Once on a time, in beauteous Paradise, 
Two angels wandered at the even-tide, 
Beneath a splendor of celestial skies, 
With banks of violets on every side. 
And to their ears, came ever far and wide, 
Soft notes of flutes, voluptuous melodies, 
That mortals, hearing, had in rapture died. 
So soft they came, the murmuring of the seas 
Was stilled, to listen to their ecstasies. 

And while they wandered, all their senses 

filled 

With the sweet thought to be forever young, 

All things a joy, and every longing stilled, 

With not a heart by any sorrow wrung, 

And life a song to be forever sung, — 

A thought came o'er them like a sacred spell, 

Of loved and left, far other scenes among, 
11 



12 THE HAPPY ISLES. 

Where no dear heart might ever go, to tell 
How sweet is death, and how all things are 
well. 

Then one did ask what loveliest thing there 

was, 
That was most fair of anything on earth, 
Of lovely flower, or eglantine, or rose, 
Or tree, or thing of most surpassing worth, 

And beauteous even from its very birth, 

Be it of groves, or seas, of human kind, or 

skies, 
Or songs of winds, of sadness, or of mirth, — 
What loveliest thing of all that ever dies, 
Were fittest first to be in Paradise. 

One said a nightingale, and one the gleam 

Of summer sunset by some constant sea, 

And one, sweet apple-blooms that fall and 

seem 
Wind-kissed, and lulled into an ecstasy 
Of odorous death, if such a thing there be. 
And others said, for many hastened near, 
The loveliest thing in all the world to see, 



THE HAPPY ISLES. 13 

Surpassing all, to heaven and earth most dear, 
By angels welcomed, is a sorrowing tear. 

One said the fragrance of a summer rose, 
And one the melody of flutes at eve, 
Or else the music of a brook that flows, 
Murmuring farewell, and yet doth never 

leave, — 
And some said moonlight nights that weave 
In every soul sweet phantasies so deep 
That mortals may of immortality conceive, 
Nor longer wish their little lives to keep 
From that sweet death which some of them 

call sleep. 

But one there came, of others all the first, 
And laid his hand upon a little child, 
And quick there seemed a radiance to burst 
About his face, ineffable and mild. 
" This is the loveliest," he said, and smiled. 
" Surpassing this, or lovelier, there is none, — 
Rose-leaf of beauty, mortal undefiled. 
The pearly gates no soul hath ever won, 
That was not like unto this little one." 



14 THE HAPPY ISLES. 

Then children came, and laid sweet baskets 

down, 
Rose-leaf and violet, and every flower of 

worth, 
And odorous herbs, and many a wreath and 

crown, 
While in their midst stood one of mortal 

birth, 
Herself more fair than any flower of earth. 
Oh ! beauteous one, — oh ! face more perfect 

grown. 
Though all unchanged, more beautiful thou 

art, — 
E'en in thy angelhood, we still had known 
Our heart-sweet lost — our loved, our very 

own. 

Was it a vision that I saw her there, 

Her face all gleaming in the light of I lis. 
The sunlight shining on her sweet, brown 

hair, 
That ever had been my delight to ki>-. 
In the old days, when seeing her was bliss'/ 
It must have been — and if such tilings there 

be, 



THE HAPPY ISLES. 15 

Iii fleeting visions of an hour like this, 
What an Elysium the soul must see 
In the sweet joys of an eternity ! 

'Tis but a year — but little more, since she 
And I were laughing by this beauteous lake; 
There is the path, and there the little tree 
I used to bend close to the ground, and make 
A springing seat — 't was easy for her sake. 
There, too, the grove, of Nidelbad the pearl, 
The beechen trees no winds could ever break, 
The cedars, bending like some plumed earl 
To her I loved, the little, laughing girl. 

There are the Alps — there they will ever 

be, — 
A thousand years will make no change in 

them, 
Though rivers fail, and all the mighty sea, 
Still they will wear their gracious diadem, 
Storm and the clouds their snowy mantles 

hem, 
And they will shine as they have shone of 

old — 



16 THE HAPPY ISLES. 

Their tops aflame, as on some evening, when 
We watched the sun their palaces unfold, — 
The sapphire roofs — the colonnades of gold. 

And Zurich lake ! thy waters ever will 
Be dearer far than other scenes to me, 
For I have wandered by thy shores until 
My very being seemed akin to thee. 
Each bank I knew, and every brook and 

tree, 
Each vine-clad hill, and every hamlet fair. 
And more I loved thee every day, that si a- 
Was born to us amid a scene so rare, — 
My heart will be forever turning there. 

Forever turning to that beauteous scene, 
Where she and I, the happy years agone, 
Looked on the hills and the blue lake be- 
tween, 
The blushing mountains in the dim beyond, 
The ice-built palaces, and rocks whereon 
A thousand years the frost-king travelleth, 
Where the red sun, at evening and at dawn. 



THE HAPPY ISLES. 17 

Spreads all in gold, as with a fairy's breath. 
We looked and dreamed, but never dreamed 
of death. 

And it is done ! One morn, the little bird 

That waited ever at her window-pane 

For some dear crumb, or for some dearer 

word, 
Plumed its sweet breast, and waited there in 

vain. 
Sweet heart ! dear soul ! she without any 

stain, 
Too pure for earth, born of far fairer skies, 
Thoughtless of death, of darkness, or of pain, 
Looking on us as if with other eyes, 
Let go our hands and passed to Paradise. 

With gentle hands, and gentle prayers, we 

laid 
Her body where the violets do blow ; 
And if sometimes they should be thought to 

fade, 
With our warm tears we '11 water them, and so 
For love of her, they will forever grow. 



]_g THE HAPPY ISLES. 

And many days, with broken hearts, we said, 
" Conld one return, or could we only know 
She liveth yet, whom we have thus called 

dead, 
Our souls in this might still be comforted." 

And days and nights, we waited for a sign, 
Praying and hoping slit- might linger there, 
That word or look might lessen death's re- 
pine, 
One single word might lighten our despair — 
Might make the yoke more possible to bear. 
We sought of silence — there was answer 

none, 
We sought of moonlight, and of earth and 

air, — 
There was no answer. Would she never e<> me 
One moment back, and strike all doubting 

dumb ? 

And longing thus, as once I wept alone, 
With heart bowed down, and faee all wet 

with tears, 
I felt her presence —felt my very own,— 



THE HAPPY ISLES. 19 

And in that moment was the bliss of years. 
Gone were my doubts, and gone were all my 

fears. 
No dream was it — no phantasy could be 
So like to her — the very thought endears. 
It was no dream, that vision sweet — I see 
Her dear form yet, and feel her kissing me. 

One moment only, and one sweet embrace — 
I felt her warm arms resting on my breast — 
Her soft, warm cheek I felt against my face. 
A thousand times I 'd put that head to rest, 
Those little hands a thousand times caressed. 
Dear eyes, sweet eyes ! I know their tender 

gleam, 
How oft their look some sorrowing heart hath 

blessed — 
Dearer this night, than they did ever seem, 
Dear one I love, I know it was no dream. 

'T was but a moment, but that moment was 
Rich in significance of things that are : 
As some faint light behind the hill-top shows 
The comino; moon and her attendant star, 



20 THE HAPPY ISLES. 

So with new eyes I saw, and from afar 
Heard sweetest tones, and in the rosy West 
Where they had left the golden gates ajar. 
That she might come to give my spirit rest, 
I looked and saw the Islands of the Blest. 

Or dream, or waking, T may never know, 
Alike the joy, no words may ever tell, — 
I saw the isles where roses ever blow, 

I saw the slioivs where bright seas ever 

swell — 
Jt was the land where the hirst spirits dwell. 
I saw fair harks, by angels piloted 
()\r roseate seas that only rose and fell 
To notes of flutes, that thus were hallowed. 
While silver moons shed soft light overhead. 

I saw the gardens of the happy Blest, — 
The lotns-blooms, and golden asphodel, 
And flowering shrubs angelic hands had 

dressed, 
Red-berried ash, and the sweet mountain bell, 
And thornless rose that doth forever smell, 
And lilies fair, and waters all in tune 



THE HAPPY ISLES. 21 

With odorous winds that came like fairy spell 
Out of the night, to cool the parched noon, 
And make the year a never-ending June. 

I saw the fields that are forever green, 

And purple hills that melt into the sea, 

The thousand brooks that sing their way 

between, 
One and a part of His great minstrelsy. 
Not far away that happy sea may be, 
Not far those sails by rapturous breezes bent, 
With mortal eyes, at times, we almost see, 
So near they are to our own firmament — 
The Blessed Isles, where all men are content. 

Gone is the vision of that blessed hour, 
Like to some dream that with the morn is 

flown. 
I saw the Isles, and every tree and flower 
Melt and grow dim, as when a cloud is blown 
Across a moon that had that moment shone. 
But as that moon and all her star-lit train, 
Will still shine on, when the dark cloud is 

gone, 



22 THE HAPPY ISLES. 

So will the clouds that hide my vision wane, 
And I shall see the Blessed Isles again. 

Shall ever think how very thin the veil 
That floats at times betwixt myself and her, 
Like mist of morn, or like some dewy sail, — 
Ethereal cloud — so vapor-like, as 't were 
A touch of wind, a gentle breath, might stir 
Its shining folds — and I again should see, 
Spread out like gold, as in my vision fair. 
The Happy Isles, the far-off shining sea. 
And her I loved, waiting to welcome me. 

So I shall walk as now the earth along, 
Dearer to me for one that has been here, 
Nor shall the way seem very dark or long 
To those Blest Isles whose confines do ap- 
pear. 
And if, sometimes, in fancy I should hear 
A dear, soft voice, or some light footstep's 

tread, 
I shall he sure that she is very near, 
And, thinking so, be gently comforted, 
And live and love, as by her spirit led. 



THE HAPPY ISLE 8. 23 

And many times my hand in hers will be, 
And we will walk by pleasant ways alone, 
And I shall look into her face, and see 
The dearest eyes that ever yet have shone — 
And cheeks more sweet than any roses 

blown. 
And when, sometimes, light song and pleas- 
antry 
Fill every heart but mine, to silence grown, 
They will not know that, at that moment, she 
Sits by my side and keeps me company. 



SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA. 

Our camp-fires shone bright on the mount- 
ains, 

That frowned on the river below. 
While we stood by our guns in the morning, 

And eagerly watched for the foe ; 
When a rider came out from the darkness 

That hung over mountain and tree, 
And shouted "Boys, up and be ready ! 

For Sherman will march to the sea ! " 

Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sherman 

Went up from each valley and glen, 
And the bugles re-echoed the music 

That came from the lips of the men ; 
For we knew that the stars in our banner 

More bright in their splendor would be. 
And that blessings from Northland would 
greet us, 

When Sherman marched down to the sea. 



SHERMAN'S MARCH TO THE SEA. 25 

Then forward, boys ! forward to battle ! 

We marched on our perilous way, 
And we stormed the wild hills of Besaca— 

God bless those who fell on that day ! 
Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory, 

Frowned down on the flag of the free ; 
But the East and the West bore our standards 

And Sherman marched on to the sea. 



Still onward we pressed, till our banners 

Swept out from Atlanta's grim walls, 
And the blood of the patriot dampened 

The soil where the rebel flag falls. 
Yet we paused not to weep for the fallen, 

Who sleep by each river and tree, 
But we twined them a wreath of the laurel, 

And Sherman marched on to the sea. 



O ! proud was our army that morning, 
That stood where the pine darkly towers, 

When Sherman said, " Boys, you are weary ; 
To-day fair Savannah is ours." 



26 SHERMAN' 8 MARCH TO THE SEA. 

Then sang we a song for our chieftain, 
That echoed o'er river and lea, 

And the stars in our banner shone brighter, 
When Sherman marched down to the seal 



THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 

It was fourteen hundred and ninety-two, 

The close of the New Year's day, 
When the armies of Catholic Ferdinand, 
The flower of all the Spanish land, 
At the siege of Granada lay. 

Ten thousand foot and ten thousand horse 

And ten thousand men with bows 
Were on the left, and as many more 
Had stormed close up to the city's door, 
Where the Darro Eiver flows. 

And the king held levee, for on that day 

Great news had come to court — 
How on the morrow the town would yield, 
And the flag of Spain, with the yellow field, 
Would float from the Moorish fort. 

There were princely nobles and high grandees 
That night in the royal tent ; 

27 



28 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 

And the beautiful queen with the golden hair 
And shining armor and sword was there — 
On the king's right arm she leant. 

It was nine, and the old Alhambra bells 

Tolled out on the moonlit air ; 
And over the battlements far there came 
The murmuring sound of Allah's name, 

And the Moorish trooj^s at prayer. 

"Hark!" said the king, as he heard the 
sound, 

" Hark, hark ! to yon bell's refrain — 
Five hundred years it has called the Moor ; 
This night, and 'twill call him nevermore — 

To-morrow 'twill ring for Spain !" 

Then spake a guest at the king's right hand : 

" To-morrow the end will be ; 
Hast thou not said, when the war is done 
And the Christ flag floats o'er the Moslem 
one, 

Thou wouldst keep th}- promise to me ? 



THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 29 

" Thou wouldst give me ships, and wouldst 
give me men 

Who would dare to follow me ? 
Help thou this night with thy royal hand, 
And I'll make thee king of a new-found land 

And king of a new-found sea. 

" For the world is round, and a ship may sail 

Straight on with the setting sun, 
Beyond Atlantis a thousand miles, 
Beyond the peaks of the golden isles, 
To the Ophir of Solomon. 

" So I'll find new roads to the golden isles, 

To the gardens that bloom alway, 
To the treasure-quarries of Ispahan, 
The sunlit hills of the mighty Khan, 
And the wonders of far Cathajr. 

" And gold I'll bring from the islands fair, 

And riches of palm and fir 
Thou shalt have, my king ; and the lords of 

Spain 
Shall march with the Christ flag once again, 

And rescue the Sepulchre." 



30 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 

But the nobles smiled and the prelates 
sneered, 

With many a scornful fling ; 
" Had not the wisest already said 
It was but the scheme of an empty head, 

And no fit thing for a king ? 

" And were it true that the world is round, 

And not like an endless plain, 
Were our good king's vessels the seas to ride 
Adown the slope of the world's great side, 

How would they get up again?' 

"And the land of the fabled antipodes 

Was a wonderful land to see, 
Where people stand with their heads on the 

ground, 
And their feet in the air, while the world 

spins round " — 
And they all laughed merrily. 

But the king laughed not, though he scarce 
believed 
The things that his ears had heard ; 



THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 31 

And lie thought full long of the promise fair, 
And he knew that the day and the hour were 
there, 
If a king were to keep his word. 

So he said, " For a while, for a little while, 

Let it bide, for the cost is great ; " 
But the guest replied : "Nay, seven years 
I have waited on with my hopes and fears ; 
And soon it will be too late." 

Then spake the queen, " Be it done for me. 

Here are jewels for woe or weal ; " 
And she took the gems from her shining hair, 
And the priceless pearls she was wont to 
wear, 

And she said, "For my own Castile." 

# * * * * -3f * 

There were three ships sailing from Palos 
town, 

Ere the noon of a summer's day, 
And the people looked at the ships and said, 
" God pity their souls, for they all are dead ;" 

But the ships went down the bay. 



32 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 

And an east wind blew, and the convent bells 

Bang out in sweet accord, 
And the master stood on the deck and cried, 
11 We sail in the name of the Crucified, 

With the flag of Christ our Lord !" 

They were ten days out when a storm wind 
blew — 

Ten days from the coast of Spain — 
And the sailors shrived each other and said, 
"God help us now, or Ave all are dead ! 

We shall never see land again." 

They were twelve days out when an ocean 
rock 

Burst forth in a sea of fire, 
As if each peak and each lava cliff 
Of the red-hot sides of Teneriffe, 

Were a sea-king's funeral pyre. 

And the sailors crossed themselves and said, 

"Alas, for the day we swore 
To follow a reckless adventurer — 
Though it be at last to the Sepulchre — 

In search of an unknown shore." 



THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 33 

And they spoke of the terror that lay be- 
tween, 
Of the hurricanes born of hell, 
Of the sunless seas that forever roar, 
Where the moon had perished long years 
before, 
When an evil spirit fell. 

And ever the winds blew west, blew west, 

And the ships blew over the main. 
" They are cursed winds," the mariners said, 
" That blow us forever ahead — ahead ; 
They will never blow back to Spain." 

But the master cited the Holy Writ ; 

And he told of a vision fair, 
How a shining angel would show the way 
To the Indus isles and the sweet Cathay, 

And he "knew they were almost there." 

But a sea-calm came, and the ships stood still, 

And the sails drooped idle and low, 
And a seaweed covered the vasty deep 
As darkness covers a world in sleep, 
And they feared for the rocks below. 



34 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 

It was twelve that uiglit when a breeze 
sprang fresh, 

As if from a land close by, 
And the sailors whispered each other and said, 
" God only knows what next is ahead — 

Or if to-morrow we die." 

It was two by the clock on the ship next 
morn, 

And breathless the sailors stand, 
With eyes strained into the starless night, 
When, lo! there's a cry of " A light, a light!" 

And a shout of " The land, the land !" 

There were weeping eyes, there were press- 
ing hands, 

Till the dawn of that blessed day ; 
When the admiral, followed by all his train, 
With the flag of Christ and the flag of Spain, 

Eode proudly up the bay. 

In robes of scarlet and princely gold, 
On the New World's land they kneel ; 



TEE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 35 

In the name of Christ, whom all adore, 
They christened the island San Salvador, 
For the crown of their own Castile. 

And the simple islanders gazed in awe 
On the " gods from another sphere ;" 

And they brought them gifts of the Yuca 
bread, 

And golden trinkets, and parrots red, 
And showed them the islands near. 

They told of the lords of a golden house, 

Of the mountains of Cibao, 
The cavern where once the moon was born, 
The hills that waken the sun at morn, 

And the isles where the spices grow. 

From isle to island the ships flew on, 

Like white birds on the main, 
Till the master said, "With my flags unfurled, 
I have opened the gates of another world — 

I will carry the news to Spain." 

It was seven months since at Palos town, 
Ere the noon of that summer's day, 



36 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 

The good ships sailed, with their flags un- 
furled, 
In search of another and far-off world — 
And again they are in the bay. 

Twelve months have passed, and the king 
again 

Holds levee with all his train, 
And Columbus sits at the king's right hand, 
And, whether on sea or upon the land, 

Is the greatest man in Spain. 

And the queen has honored him most of all — 
She has taken him by the hand : 

" Don Christopher thou shalt be called 
ahvay ;" 

And a golden cross on his heart there lay, 
And over his breast a band. 

And ships she gave, and a thousand men, 

With nobles and knights in train ; 
And again the convent bells they rung, 
And the praise of his name was on every 
tongue, 
As he sailed for the West again — 



THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 37 

To the hundred islands and far away 

In the heats of the torrid zone, 
To gardens as fair as Hesperides, 
To spice-grown forests, and scented seas 
Where no sails had ever blown ; 

And up and down by the New World's coast, 

And over the western main, 
With but the arms of his own true word, 
He lifted the flag of the blessed Lord 

And the flag of the land of Spain. 

And he gave them all to the king and queen, 

And riches of things untold ; 
And never a ship that crossed the sea 
But brought them tokens from fruit and 
tree, 

And gems from the land of gold. 

Three times he had sailed to his new-found 
world, 

Five times he had crossed the main, 
When, walking once by the sea, he heard, 
By secret letter or secret word, 

Of a murderous plot in Spain — 



38 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 

How that envious persons about the court 
Had poisoned the mind of the king 

By many a letter of false report, 

By base suspicion of evil sort, 

And words with a traitorous sting. 

And the king, half eager to hear the worst, 

For he never had been a friend, 
Believed it all, and he rued the hour 
He gave to the master rank and power, 
And resolved it should have an end. 

So with cold pretence of the truth to hear, 

And with heart that was false as base, 
A ship was hurried across the main, 
With Bobadilla, false knight of Spain, 
To take the admiral's place. 

that kings should ever unkingly be ! 

O that men should ever forget ! 
For that fatal hour the false knight came, 
To the king's disgrace and the great world's 
shame, 

The star of Columbus set. 



THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 39 

They took the queen's cross from off his 
breast, 

And chains they gave him instead ; 
And iron gyves on his wrists they put, 
Yile fetters framed for each hand and foot — 

" 'Twere better they left him dead." 

For he who was first of the new-found world, 

And bravest upon the main, 
Who had found the isles of the fabled gold, 
And the far-off lands that his faith foretold, 

Was dragged like a felon to Spain. 

But the whole world heard the clank of his 
chains, 

When he landed in Cadiz bay ; 
And fearing the taunt and the curse and scoff, 
The false king hurried to take them off, 

At the pier where the old ship lay. 

But little it helped, or the kiug's false smile, 

As he sat in his robes of state ; 
For wrong is wrong, if in hut or hall, 
And the right were as well not done at all, 
If done, alas ! too late. 



40 THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 

And little it helped if, here and there, 

The mantle of favor stole 
Across his shoulders, to hide the stain 
Of a broken heart or a broken chain — 

They had burned too deep in his soul. 

So the years crept by, and the cold neglect 

Of kiugs, that will come the while ; 
Forever and ever 'tis still the same — 
Short-lived's the glory of him whose fame 
Depends on a prince's smile. 

And long he thought, could he see the queen, 
Could he speak with her face to fai 

She would know the truth and would be again 
What once she was, ere his hopes were slain ; 
And he sighed in his lonely place. 

And on a day when he seemed forgot, 

And darker the fates, and grim, 
A letter came, 'twas the queen's command, 
"Come straight to court," in her own fair hand, 
And she would be true to him. 

But alas for man, and alas for queen, 
And alas for hopes so sped ! 



THE BALLAD OF COLUMBUS. 41 

He had only come to the castle gate, 
When the warder said, " It is late — too late, 
For the queen, she is lying dead." 

And the king forgot what the fair, good queen 

With her dying lips had said ; 
And he who had given a world to Spain 
Had never a roof for himself again, 

And he wished that he, too, were dead. 

Slow tolled the bells of old Seville town, 

At noon of a summer's day ; 
For up in a chamber of yonder inn, 
Close by the street, with its noise and din, 

The heart of the New World lay. 

Perhaps the king, on his throne close by, 

No thought to the tolling gave ; 
But over a world, far up and down, 
They heard the bells of Seville town, 
And they stood by an open grave. 

And the Seville bells, they are ringing still. 

Through the centuries far and dim ; 
And though it is but the common lot 
Of men to die, and to be forgot, 

They will ring forever of him. 



THE FIRST KISS. 

Can you tell roe what a kiss is, 

Lady mine ? 
Stands there writ among the pages 
Of the poets and the sages 

Any sign ? 

What a kiss is, sweet, then listen 

Once to me : 
When the fairies first made lovers, 
Such as you and I and others — 

In their glee, 

They forgot to make a sign-word 

And a seal — 
Something that should be a token 
Of a something still unspoken, 

That we feel. 

Till one day a man and maiden, 

Sweet as morn, 
Touched their lips just so, together, 
And out there, among the heather, 

It was born. 

42 



THE FIRST KISS. 43 

Oh ! the fairies laughed and cried so, 

In the morn, 
Just to think, in two lips meeting, 
And in two eyes fondly greeting, 

It was born. 

And they laughed, and said together, 

We will make 
Out of human lips a treasure, 
Loved and deep beyond all measure, 

For their sake. 

And with fairy wands they touched them, 

And the thrill 
Of the two first lips together, 
On that sweet morn in the heather, 

Liveth still. 

And from that morn unto this morn 

Of our bliss, 
There hath never been a lover 
But the sign-word could discover 

In a kiss. 



PHILIP. 

Ah! many and many a year ago it was 

And yet, but yesterday it might have been. 
So little changed are fields and olive rows, 
And Prato's lulls, and orchards gold and 

green, 
And hearts of men and women too, I ween. 
Some things there are that never do grow old. 
Or, growing old. age is not felt nor seen ; 
As faces of the ones we love — they hold 
A truce with time, — and lovers' tales, though 

oft retold. 

Ah! many a year within a cloister's walls, 
A friar-painter brooded all the day : 
For even prayer sometimes a little palls 
On honest hearts who count their beads alway, 
And most with those who work, as well as 

pray. 
And so with Philip, young and fair, and one 
Whom cities honored; and men loved to sav 



p&ilip. 45 

That Friar Philip painted Christ as none 
In all his far-famed Italy had ever done. 

Still was he not content, for he would trace 

The Holy Virgin, with a face so fair, 

Men should not say, " How sweet it is, what 

grace, 
What depth of color and what beauty rare, 
And still, no face of any woman there." 
He would have flesh, and human blood and 

bone; 
Christ was a woman's son, the priests declare : 
It was a maid, on whom the starlight shone 
That night, that sweetest night, God's world 

has ever known. 

" If I could find in all fair Italy, 

One face to help me to my face divine, 

It should be riches, joy enough, for me, 

Alas ! there is not any face so fine 

As this I see, this virgin face of mine. 

If Heaven were gracious — no — it cannot 

be, 
That which my soul for ever doth enshrine, 



46 PHILIP. 

Which even in sleep comes tenderly to me, 
I cannot paint because no form or body can I 

see." 

One day, blessed day, within St. Margaret, 
A sisters' cloister of old Prato town, 
The pious abbess thought to pay some debt 
To some dead saint or other, of renown, 
And prayed that Philip might himself come 

down 
And paint a virgin, with a mother's Pace, 
And Christ, the child, her glory and her crown, 

A picture fitted for such holy place, 

Thus would the sisters find some special last- 
ing grace. 

Long up and down the arched room he went, 
With folded hands, and eyes bent down alway; 
His unused easel on the altar leant. 
The unstained pallet on the marble lav. 
His thoughts, with her, had wandered far 

away. 
"Cursed fate" — he cried — « but, no, I do 

forget — 



PHILIP. 47 

I will not curse, and yet I cannot pray." 
Thus murmured ever till his dark eyes met 
The nearing, list'ning abbess of St. Margaret. 

" What is it, Philip ? list — I heard you here ; 
He is more gracious than your words allow — 
The sweetest face of Italy is near, 
I hear her singing in the vespers now — 
A month ago, she took our novice vow. 
It is not seeming, and perhaps not meant, 
And holy fathers they would frown, I trow, 
To see a novice to a brother lent, 
E'en were 't to paint a picture of the sacra- 
ment. 

" But you I know and your good heart ah, well, 
Take her till prayers, and paint her as you 

can, 
Above that altar, that we long may tell 
We have a picture by the famous man ; 
It is not every convent here in Prato can. 
Bar well the door, and let the censer swing, 
It adds a glamour to this room — a spell, 
Perhaps 't will aid in your imagining, 
It is like her, so fair, so beautiful a thing." 



48 PHILIP. 

Herself she crossed, and left him at the noon — 
The great drops stand in Philip's dark, deep 

eyes; 
It is too much to be so blest so soon, 
But he who falters at this moment, dies. 
He laughs anon, and then anon he sighs. 
The curtains part — along the altar stair 
A rustling gown, to where his pallet lies — 
His prayed-for virgin — see, she waits him 

there. 
Even in his dreams she was not half so fair. 

Abashed, and blushing like a rose she stood. 
Her dark eves resting on the marble floor; 
v * Was this not Philip, whom the sisterhood 
Had praised a thousand, thousand times. 

before, 
Till she herself was ready to adore?" 
He took her hand and gently led to where 
The sunbeams bent, embracing, from a stained 

door, 
Casting their shadows on an oaken chair, 
High-backed and carved, that was standing 

there. 



PHILIP. 49 

High-backed and carved and of form antique, 
And half way covered with a cloth of gold, 
So bright, the very sunbeams even seemed 

to seek 
Some new warmth lurking in its secret fold — 
As if when she were there, even marble could 

be cold — 
She was herself so warm, and beautiful, and 

rare, — 
Not half her beauty had the abbess told. 
Heaven ! 't is no wonder Philip can but 

stare, 
How could mere mortal paint a face so fair? 

Her novice kerchief she has laid aside, 
And loosed the girdle from her simple gown, 
And her sweet bodice she has half untied, 
And half the abandon of her hair is down, 
Her hair, so soft, and beautiful, and brown. 
He looked and sighed as in a soothed bliss, 
Saw his ideal — of all maids, the crown, 
The throat, the bosom, fit for cherub's kiss, 
Alas ! he was not living who could paint like 
this. 



50 PHILIP. 

He was not living who could paint a sigh, 
Or the soft heaving of a loving breast, 
Nor the warm lustre of a woman's eye 
When he she loves is ling'ring to be prest — 
Could one so paint, he were divinely blest. 
He tried and tried, then laid the pallet 

down, — 
The chapel bells were calling her to prayer, 
Her beads she took, and, folding her sweet 

gown, 
She left him longing like a spirit then'. 
In sad, yet sweet and beautiful despair. 

But on that night, when olive-eovered hills 
Lay sweet and silvered with a summer moon. 
When all was silence, save the whippoorwiUs 
Who tired not chanting in the sad old roon 
To the grim watchdog that had waked too 

soon. 
Soft whisp'ring lips halt' touched a maiden's 

ear : 
"Arise, arise, it is the long night's noon. 
And here are kisses for thee, sweet, and here. 
And softly rose she without shame or fear. 



PHILIP. 51 

And softly stepped she on the oaken stair, 
And softly stepped she in that chapel old, 
The silver censer still was swinging there, 
As if a moonbeam did its weight uphold, 
It was so light, and beautiful of mould. 
It was not mockery that she did kneel, 
Though round her waist she felt an arm 

enfold, 
Beneath that censer it was good to feel 
The old time blessing guilt could not conceal. 

And out through fields, and olive groves 

they went, 
Through cypress alleys, and by forests green, 
And purpled vines, with luscious fruits all 

bent, 
And high stone walls, with narrow lanes 

between, — 
And over all the moonlight's mellow sheen. 
Still on they wandered till the coming day 
Changed into purple the enchanted scene ; 
And when the sisters met that morn, to 

pray, 
They did not dream how far she was away. 



52 PHILIP. 

Oh woe ! oh woe ! the sisters cried that 

morn, 
And woe ! swift neighbors, as they mounted 

steed ; 
And all the hills re-echo to the horn, 
And horses' hoofs, as quickly on they speed 
By brook, and bridge, and olive grove and 

mead. 
In vain, in vain, not one of them may tell 
Where he hath hid her in this hour of need, 
If in some cave of mountain, or some secret 

dell — 
Little, but little, recks he, that they ride so 

well. 

Vain was demand, and vain was bishop's 

frown, 
Vain as swift mounting, and the swifter 

chase — 
But once, when Philip came to Prato town, 
Men saw him painting, in the market-place, 
The immortal picture of his lady's face — 
A face so fair — a sorrow without pain, 
An angel's look, and yet a woman's grace — 



PHILIP. 53 

As if a rose upon a frost had lain, 
And blushed to see itself a rose again. 

Long dead is he who painted there that day, 
And she whose face did so his soul inspire, 
And all those sisters, aye, long dead are they ; 
And other hands now light that altar-fire, 
And that sweet censer 's like a broken lyre. 
But through the ages, still men love to trace 
An art new born to Philip, king and sire, 
And lives like song the beauty of that face 
That Philip Lippi painted in the market-place. 



MAKGEEY BEOWN. 

Margery Brown is ever so fair, 

There is none like lier, not one in the town. 
Brown are her soft eyes, and browner her hair, 
Queenly her footstep, and queenly her air — 

No, there's no other like Margery Brown. 

Margery Brown is not young as she seems, 
Fair as she is from her foot to her crown, 

Lips archly bent, cheeks with dimples and 
gleams, 

Eyes full of summer and beautiful dreams — 
She is just sixty — sweet Margery Brown. 

Years ago, many, sweet Margery Brown 

Loved as a woman can only know how ; 

That was the year of the plague in the town, 

And people all wondered that Margery 

Brown 

Kept her sweet dimples and beautiful brow. 

" I am still beautiful," Margery said, 
Bowing her face to the form they laid down. 

54 



MARGER Y BRO WN. 55 

"He will come back when the poppies are red. 
See! howhesmiles,tho'he'slyingtheredead;" 
And the neighbors all pitied mad Margery 
Brown. 

Years did not reckon with Margery more ; 

Time brought no dimness to eyes that 
were brown — 
Fountains of youth kept her beauty in store. 
" I am yet young," she still said, "as before," 

And fair as an angel was Margery Brown. 

Margery lives in a world of her own. 

What to her if the sun goes down ? 
Night hath stars that never have shone, 
And she has hopes none other has known. 

And they keep her young, sweet Margery 
Brown. 

She forgets that the years pass by, 

Margery fair, with the quaint- cut gown, 

Lips of roses and sunlit eye, 

Cheeks where blushes and dimples vie ; 
But all hearts love her — sweet Margery 
Brown. 



NEWS AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 

All the night the President sat, 

Waiting the telegraph's click, click, click ; 
Waiting the news that should tell him that 

Grant had crossed at the little creek ; 
Waiting to hear that before the light 

Sherman's troops were beyond the bridge; 
That over the river, from left to right, 

All was ready to charge the Ridge. 

Chickamauga was lost ; our dead 

Lay in heaps on the sodden plain ; 
What if the rebel, with lifted head, 

Strike, as he struck, to our hearts again ! 
Over the North, as a pall of night, 

Sorrow hung, and the summons came : 
" Win a victory — win us a fight ; 

Wipe away from our flag the shame." 

All the night, in his room alone — 
All the night till the dawn was by, 

56 



NEWS AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 57 

And over the broad Potomac shone 
Eed the sun in the eastern sky — 

Watched the President, grave and sad — 
Came no tick on the mystic line ; 

What if the daring rebel had 

Tapped the wire and read the sign — 

Sign of battle, or sign of gloom ? 

Hark ! the lightning's messenger ! 
No ! Silence only is in the room — 

Silence only, and breath of prayer. 
Listen ! Yes, 'tis the tick, tick, tick — 

" Clear the lines " are the first words sent, 
" Up to Washington, men, be quick ! 

Grant will talk with the President." 

Click, click, click, went the instrument — 

" Sherman's army has crossed the stream;" 
Nearer the table the grave face leant, 

Lips half parted and eyes agleam. 
" Hooker's soldiers but yesterday 

Stormed up Lookout in mist and rain ; 
They are holding the dangerous way, 

They will fight at our right again. 



58 NEWS AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 

"On the left is our storming line, 

Sherman's legions are bending on ;" 
Click, click, click: " On the Kidge there shine 

Kows of cannon since early dawn — 
Rows of cannon and men in gray, 

Shining columns of burnished steel ; 
They are holding our men at bay, 

They are waiting the cannon's peal. 

" Look ! our soldiers have climbed the Ridge; 

Sherman's gallants have stormed the line 
Forty cannon are at the bridge — 

Brave these soldiers of his and mine !" 
Click, click, click : " The centre moves, 

Thomas, Sheridan, all abreast, 
Bayonets fixed — in troops and droves 

Charging clear to the mountain's crest. 

"Battle's thunder from left to right, 
Belching cannon and musket's crash." 

Click, click, click : " Lo ! on every height 
Flames of sulphur and lightnings flash." 

Closer still to the breathing wire 
Bends the face of the President — 



NEWS AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 59 

Does he hear it, the battle's fire, 
Half-way over a continent ? 

Does he hear it, the bugle's call, 

Sounding " Forward," the whole long line ? 
Sees he blue-coat and gray-coat fall ? 

Hears he cannon and splintering pine ? 
Click, click, click : " And a thousand men 

Climb the works on the highest hill — 
Wait ! they are driving us back again ! 

No ! our banner is waving still ! 

" See ! we're storming the whole long line, 

Waiting never a leader's cry ; 
Over the rocks and splintering pine — 

We will capture the Eidge or die ! 
Hand to hand on the very crest " — 

Click, click, click — " with the naked steel ; 
Only a moment, and, east to west, 

Flags are falling and columns reel. 

" Shouts and cheers on the Eidge are heard — 
Shouts and cheers till the skies are rent ; 

Back to the river, they've got the word — 
Won is the battle, our President ! " 



60 NEWS AT THE WHITE HOUSE. 

Quick as thought, and the answer flies — 
" Bless our soldiers ! God bless each one !" 

And up to the loyal Northern skies 
Hymns ascend for the battle won. 

Kind, good President — brave, strong men, 

Sounds of battle you'll hear no more — 
Calls of bugle to charge again, 

Crash of muskets or cannon's roar. 
But, while Mountain and Ridge shall stand, 

They are one with your deathless fame ; 
Men shall tell to a rescued land 

How the news to the White House came. 



THE EEVEILLE. 

Foe the one last reveille 

They are waiting as they fell — 

Arm to arm, and knee to knee ; 
They are sleeping — it is well — 

Till the one last reveille. 

They are sleeping — let them rest — 
In the sod they died to save ; 

Fame shall write above their breast, 
" They are mine, though in the grave," 

And their spirits shall have rest. 

Feet of loved ones shall come near 
When the May is in her bloom, 

And with garlands every year 
Deck their unforgotten tomb, 

For, though dead, they are so dear. 

When, with fife and muffled drum, 
And with steady step, and slow, 

61 



62 THE REVEILLE. 

They shall hear their comrades come, 
They will hear the step and know — 
They will hear them when they come. 

They will smell the fragrance sweet 
Of the blossoms that you bring ; 

They will hear the treading feet ; 
They will hear the songs you sing ; 

They will hear the drummers beat. 

They will hear the jubilee, 

And the bells that ring release — 

They will fold their arms and be 
All at rest in hope and peace, 

Whilo thov wait the reveille. 



SAID A SONG-BIBD. 

Said a song-bird cnce to me, 

" Listen to my roundelay ; 
Man nor maid shall hinder me — 

I shall sing my song to-day." 

Said a song-bird once to me, 
" I have sung my song to-day ; 

Hadst thou listened, it may be 

I have said what thou wouldst say." 

I have only said and sung 

Things that in thy heart have dwelt ; 
Though thy harp was never strung, 

Thou hast felt what I have felt. 

All are poets in their time — 
God's whole world is harmony : 

Lo ! in one majestic rhyme 
Sweep the rivers to the sea. 

63 



64 SAID A SONG-BIRD. 

All are poets when they feel 
Nature's rhythms rise and fall ; 

Nature's heart-beats are the seal 
Maketh poets of us all. 

If, perchance, these songs of miDe 
Waken some responsive strain, 

Silent though the countersign, 
I shall not have sung in vain. 



THE GUARD ON THE VOLGA. 

What is it you 're watching, good soldier, 

In the forest so dark and lone ? 
I have heard of no Turkish cannon, 

And our Czar is at peace at home. 
Why stand on the Volga River, 

When the night is so cold and drear ? 
My Christ ! must a soldier shiver, 

When never a foeman is near ? 

Hark ! peasant, across there, an army 

Lies hid in the brushwood and moss, 
And the sergeant said : " Watch by the ferry, 

And see that no picket shall cross." 
I charged the red ditches at Plevna, 

And knew the foes' sabres by sight. 
It was fierce ! it was death ! but I never 

Knew fear in my life till to-night. 

By Heavens! I tremble. What is it? 
What is it, this army so near ? 

65 



66 THE GUABD ON THE VOLGA. 

Why don't the drums beat to the rescue ? 

Why is not our Skobeleff here ? 
Are hordes of the desert upon us, 

Are China's fierce legions at war, 
And we hut one guard on the Volga? 

God save our good land and the Czar ! 

A fiercer foe, far, than the Tartar, — 

And armies of China are small 
When counted beside the battalions 

That muster to conquer them all. 
'T is the Pestilence marching in silence, 

That hides in the brushwood and m< 
But the sergeant said : "Stick to the ferry, 

And see that no picket shall cross." 

Great God! Do they think that a picket 

Can stop what the Heavens command? 
That bullets may wrestle with angels, 

To keep the Plague out of the land? 
Oh! soldier, I'm but a poor peasant, 

Yet know that God has but one way. 
Trust sabre, nor rifle, nor picket. 

But kneel by the Volga and pray. 



THE GUARD ON THE VOLGA. 67 

And peasant and soldier together 

Knelt down in the forest alone, 
And prayed that that night on the Volga 

The hand of the Lord should be shown. 
And though the Plague lurks on the border, 

And hides 'mid the brushwood and moss, 
God's angels keep watch o'er the ferry, 

And see that no picket shall cross. 



THE SEA. 

A CHARM there is about the dang'rous sea 
That draws man to its rugged arms, as draws 
The polar star the compass to the North. 
Let him but taste the briny ocean once, — 
Friends, home, nor gold, can stay his wild 

desire 
To breast again its waves, to breathe its air, 
To brave its tempests, and to share its calm. 
To him, the deep, with all its heartless wreck 
And ruin, is a thing to love. Its storms 
Are playthings to his daring heart. He 

sleeps 
Amid its foaming rage, as sleeps a child 
Upon some mossy bank, nor dreams of harm 
To happen, ere his day has come. 

To be 
Upon its billow}^ breast, sweetheart and wife. 
Mother and child, are left to weep and wait 
Through weary days, weeks, months, and 
years ; and when 

68 



THE SEA. 69 

At last the longed-for sailor comes, 't is but 
To snatch one kiss of love, a wife's embrace, 
A mother's .tear — then yield himself again 
To that strange spell which binds him to the 

sea. 
Again he tramps the vessel's deck ; climbs 

high 
Among its shrouds and sails, and feels again 
The white sea-foam leap up to greet him with 
Its rude embrace. His heart is strangely full, 
And all he has he gives to his best love, 
The sea — his youth, his manhood, and at last 
Himself; then sweetly sleeps the long strange 

sleep 
Of Death in the old Ocean's arms. 



AUF WIEDEKSEHEN! 

There are no words in our cold English 

tongue 

Where hope and joy are kin alike to pain ; 

"Farewell," we say, and the sad heart is 

wrung : 

Only farewell — there is no " wiedersehen;" 

No wish expressed, no joyous hope, that 
when, — 

The voyage ended o'er the dang'rous main, 
The desert crossed, the trial done, — that then 

We, who have parted thus, may meet again. 

Not so farewell the German sailor cries, 
Not sogood-by, sad sweetheart unto swain. 

I go to come — he is not dead who dies ; 
Good-by, sweet love, — but, till we meet 
again. 

70 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN! 71 

'•Auf wiederselien" — a hundred thoughts in 
one — 
The double joy that recompenses pain : 
There is a rising as a setting sun ; 

Good-by, sweet love, good-by — " auf wie- 
dersehen." 

"Auf wiedersehen" — good-by, but not for 
aye; 
Thou still shalt be my one sweet song's 
refrain. 
Though thou dost go, thus ever shalt thou 
stay,— 
Good-by, sweet love, good-by — " auf wie- 
dersehen." 

" Auf wiedersehen" — good-by, good-by, and 
when 
Hope hath, in trust, the wicked absence 
slain, 
I will be with you every hour ; till then 
Good-by, sweet love, good-by — " auf wie- 
dersehen." 



THE TKAMP OF SHERMAN'S ARMY. 

List, comrades, I hear the old bugle ; 

It's sounding the same reveille 
That wakened the armies of Sherman 

One morn by the swift Tennessee. 
A thousand old memories crowd on me ; 

My tired feet are marching along, 
Keeping steps with the notes of yon bugle, 

Or the words of some old army song. 

I see Hooker's lines climbing Lookout, 

The storming of Sherman's brave men, 
The "Ridge," and the Centre, and Thomas, 

The flag floating up there again ; 
And Grant standing there like a statue, 

Unmoved till the battle is done ; 
And the words of great Lincoln, I hear them — 

" God bless you, brave men, every one." 

And the fields fiercely fought for Atlanta, 
Once more to my vision they rise — 



TEE TRAMP OF SHERMAN'S ARMY. 73 

A hundred long day s, each a battle, 
And nights full of dread and surprise. 

Each mountain and hill grows historic ; 
Each stream from some battle is red ; 

Each field is swift mown with war's sickle ; 
Each hillock's some grave of our dead. 

I see the flag float o'er Atlanta — 

The tattered old flag that we bore 
At Shiloh and Yicksburg and Corinth, 

And a score of red battles before. 
With a cheer on the ramparts we raise it, 

A cheer, and a sigh for our men 
Who sleep in the woods over yonder, 

Who'll never see battle again. 

******* 
Again the old bugle is sounding ; 

There's a tramping of thousands of men ; 
The mountains repeat the wild music ; 

The forests re-echo again. 
And around every camp-fire's the story 

Of fame and of glory to be, 
And a shout of blue-coated battalions, 

For Sherman will march to the sea. 



74 THE TRAMP OF SHERMAN'S ARMY. 

And look ! the great columns are moving 

To music of bugle and drum ; 
Their blood-colored flags pointing south- 
ward, 

Like tempests the blue columns come, 
While millions stand breathlessly waiting 

The boom of a far signal-gun, 
For the blaze of that cannon shall tell them 

How bravely Savannah was won. 

Oh ! where are the men who took Lookout, 

Or stormed up the "Kidge" on that day? 
Who held the hot lines at the " Tunnel," 

Or drove the fierce foeman to bay ? 
Oh! where are the legions of Sherman? 

God bless them, wherever they be, 
Who fought with him all that war-summer, 

Or marched with him down to the sea. 

"Where, where are the heroes who wakened 
That morn by the swift Tennessee, 

When the bugles of Sherman said " For- 
ward," 
Or sounded their loud reveille ? 



THE TRAMP OF SHERMAN'S ARMY. 75 

Where, where are the men of Kesaca, 
Of Dallas, of Kenesaw — where ? 

Fame writ their names up in her temple, 
And Freedom stands guarding them there. 

Oh patriots ! oh comrades ! we know you ; 

Your hands are still touching our own ; 
The flag that we saved there together — 

No star from its glory has flown. 
Again we touch elbows ; your spirits 

Are with us to-night in this room ; 
There's Logan, I know by his bearing, 

McPherson I see by his plume. 

There's Sheridan riding his charger, 

And Thomas, so brave and serene, 
And Hooker, and Grant, the great captain, 

His eye resting still on the scene ; 
And spirits of blue-coated soldiers 

Are wheeling from column to line ; 
They see the great chief and salute him, 

And give him the new countersign. 

Fill up again, comrades, your glasses ; 
Let's drink to these spirits, and be 



76 THE TRAMP OF SHERMAN'S AliMY. 

Once more the old army of Sherman, 
That stood by the blue Tennessee. 

Let's keep the old camp-fires a-burning, 
The songs and the memories bright, 

Till the bugle shall sound by yon river — 
All hail ! and forever — good-night ! 



THE BALLAD OF QUINTIN MASSY. 

Who goes to the city of Antwerp, that fa- 
mous old Flemish town, 

Will see, in the square of the Miinster, a 
fountain of great renown. 

It stands by the grand Cathedral, the church 

with the wondrous chimes, 
And the maidens go there for water, as they 

went in the olden times ; 

And they meet and talk of their lovers, till 

their pitchers are running o'er, 
And wonder if Flemish lovers will be what 

they were, once more, — 

Will be what they were when Quintin, as 

famous in art as in love, 
Wrought out from the heated iron the 

Roland that stands above. 

As gallant a youth was Quintin as any in 
Antwerp town, 

77 



78 THE BALLAD OF qUINTIN MASSY. 

And never a better blacksmith made bellows 
go up and down ; 

And never a Flanders lover had maiden more 

richly fair, 
Than the daughter of proud Franz Floris, 

renowned of the painters there. 

But the haughty, the proud Franz Floris 
looked up from his easel, and said : 

"The world it has got but one Floris, with 
only one child to wed. 

And he who will WOO and win her. must first 
be a painter, and paint 

This fairest of faces in Flanders, — knight- 
errant, or king, or saint. 

I note that you are a blacksmith, and a 

clever one, too, they say — 
There are many fair girls in Antwerp would 

marry you any day. 

But the daughter of old Franz Floris can 

never give heart nor hand 
To one who is not the equal of any in all the 

land." 



THE BALLAD OF QUINTIN MASSY. 79 

" Now, good Franz Floris, listen — I '11 tell 

you what I will do — 
There is not in the whole of Flanders a 

painter so great as you ; 

But if, within five short summers, I paint on 

a canvas clear, 
A picture better than any of all you have 

painted here, — 

Do you promise upon your honor, do you 

promise your own good name, 
That she shall be mine forever ? be one in 

my love — my fame ? " 

Loud laughed the great Franz Floris : " Too 

modest, young man, by far. 
Art is not won like a maiden, nor maidens 

as some things are. 

I grant that to be a blacksmith, to hammer 

a nail or a ring, 
Is an easy task for a young man, but art 

is another thing. 

And whether my daughter is willing to wait 
five summers for you ? 



80 THE BALLAD OF QUIXTIN MASSY. 

There are enough of Antwerp's gallants who 
wait but my leave to woo." 

"I'll wait!" cried Floris' daughter; "I'll 

wait, good Quintin, nor wed ; 
Five summers will find me faithful, or else 

they will find me dead/" 

So he buckled his sword about him, and with 

pilgrim's staff in hand, 
He wandered along fair rivers, he journeyed 

through many a land ; 

And an image was ever before him: "Could 

I paint what my soul doth see. 
There is not a painter in Flanders, who would 

not be envying me." 

So out from the fields of Holland, and over 

cold fields of snow, 
By many an Alpine torrent, by many a gorge 

below, 

The feet of the pilgrim wandered, far into 

that favored clime, 
Where art is a child of nature, and nature 

a thing sublime. 



THE BALLAD OF QUINTIN MASSY. 81 

Then he tarried and sought a master, in 

color, and form, and line, 
And watched the summer sunsets go out in 

a sea of wine. 

And the days went by, and the summers 

in splendor their cycles ran, 
And the smith became a scholar, and the 

scholar the fullgrown man. 

Five years to a day had vanished, five years 

and a month had flown, 
And the autumn had brought no message to 

her who was left alone. 

" He is dead," she cried, " my lover, for faith- 
less he could not be ; " 

" He is dead," the false winds whispered, 
" he is dead, but not for thee." 

One day, when the great Franz Floris stood 

leaning on Quintin's well, 
A pecller unloosed his bundle, with curious 

things to sell : 

" For the love of God, buy something ! I 
have nothing to eat or wear ! 



82 THE BALLAD OF QUINTIN MASSY. 

I am told you are fond of pictures, and here 
I have one that 's rare : 

It has neither frame nor stretcher — but the 

colors remain as clear " — 
" What is that ? good heaven ! " cried Floris, 

" 't is my child that is painted here. 

Who — where is the master painter? how 

much is the price you seek ? 
There is not a man in Flanders can paint such 

a brow and cheek." 

" Thank God ! " the stranger answered, 
"thank God that yon think it tine. 

For that picture is Quintin Massy's, who 
claims your daughter of you." 

"If you arc Quintin Massy, and if this is 

the work of your hand, 
There is not such another painter in all of 

this Flemish land. 

There's not such another painter, but I've 

news that is sad for you, 
And if you are Quintin Massy, you 11 know 

what I say is true : — 



THE BALLAD OF quINTIN MASSY. 83 

Five summers my child had waited, five 

summers their autumns wed, 
And the winter brought no message, and the 

poor child thought thee dead. 

4 He is dead,' she cried, ' my lover, for faith- 
less he could not be ; ' 

'He is dead,' the false winds whispered, 'he 
is dead, but not for thee.' 

This morning, this very morning, when the 

cloister bells strike nine, 
There will be another sister at the cloister 

of Isoline ; 

When- the bell strikes nine and a quarter, 
she will kneel for the one last vow, — 

'T is a mile from here, good Quintin, and the 
bells are ringing now." 

" Horse — horse ! " cries Quintin Massy, and 

his cloak is cast afar, 
And he rides with sword and buckler, as a 

soldier would ride to war. 

The bell strikes five already — the bell strikes 
six — and eight, 



84 THE BALLAD OF QUINTIN MASSY. 

But Quintin's sword has rattled the bars of 
the cloister gate. 

" Who comes ? " cries the angered abbess, 
" who storms at the cloister door ? 

I tell you that Moris' daughter is a child of 
the world no more. 

For the solemn mass is chanting, and she 

kneels at the altar rail, 
And pious nuns attend her, and bring her 

the sisters' veil." 

"Stop, stop your prayers," cries Quintin, . 

"for I swear by Antwerp town, 
You '11 bring me Floris' daughter, or I '11 

burn your cloister down." 

And the pale, poor nuns grew whiter, as 

white as the bands they wore, 
And they led a maiden fainting, and veiled, 

to the cloister door. 

"It is done!" cried Quintin Massy, "the 

picture I saw, is done ! 
And as you are Floris' daughter, so I am 

to be his son." 



THE BALLAD OF QUINTIN MASSY. 85 

And the chimes of the famous Miinster rang 

out in a joyous tune, 
As the bride and her blacksmith painter rode 

by on that afternoon. 



BABY HELENE. 

She was only a child of the May-day, 
That came when the sweet blossoms fell, 

But rarer than any fair lady 

Of whom the old poets may tell. 

Then the days brought us everything sweeter 
Of sunshine and love in their train. 

But better than all and completer, 
Was Baby Ilelene. 

With a kiss and a smile she came to us, 
The sunshine of God in her hair, 

Ah ! never a sweet wind that blew us 
A blossom so tender and rare. 

We sang a new May-song together, 
New-found and of jubilant strain. 

Ah ! our hearts they were light as a feather, 
With Baby Heldne. 

Would she stay with us, love us ? We bid her 
Unloosen the notes of her song — 



BABY HELENE. 87 

And tell where the sweet angels hid her, 
And why had we waited so long. 

Would they sorrow in Heaven to miss her ? 
Would they wait for her, weary to pain ? 

Would they anger to see us but kiss her, 
Our Baby Helene ? 

And all the day long, like new lovers, 
Like words that are ever in tune, 

Like songs the fresh May-wind discovers, 
Like birds that are mating in June, — 

Together we loved and we wandered, 
Forgetting of sorrow or pain, 

Forgetting the sweets that we squandered, 
With Baby Helene. 

Oh ! lips running over to kisses, 

Red cheeks kissed to brown by the sun, 

Shall we ever again know what bliss is, 
When the song and the kisses are done ? 

Oh ! baby, brown-haired, on thy tresses 
The hands of the angels had lain, 

And joy laughed new-born in caresses 
Of Baby Helene. 



8 8 BAB Y HELENE. 

Years went — seven years with their story 

More bright than Aladdin's of old, 
To love and be loved was our glory, 

Our hearts Avere our castles of gold. 
But broken our castles, and falling, 

Hope crushed — true hearts bleeding and 
slain, 
God's angels in Heaven were calling 
Our Baby Hele'ne. 

Dim-eyed, and heart-broken, we waited 

The sounds of invisible things, 
While the soul of our sou] was ruinated, 

Borne off on invisible wings. 
In the far-away, purple and golden, 

Went up an ineffable strain. 
And the far-away gates were unfolden 
To Baby Heldne. 

One moment, God's earth and its brightness 
Seemed darkened and turned into dross. 

And the manifold stars and their lightness 
Were dimmed and as nothing to us. 

For the bowl that was golden was broken, 
The hearts that were one heart, were twain. 



BAB Y HELENE. 8 9 

And the last words of love had been spoken 
By Baby Helene. 

Ah ! seven years gone as the dream goes, 

Oh ! baby-love, lost to our ken, — 
Will the brooklet still flow where the stream 
flows ? 
Will the lilies still blossom as then ? 
Will the sweet tongues of birds be unloosed 
to 
The songs of our love and its pain ? 
Will the violets bloom as they used to 
For Baby Helene ? 

Oh ! baby-love, heart-sweet, the sunlight 
That fell on the way that you went, 

Shall be to our feet as the one light, 
The lamp the sweet angels have lent. 

And the nights and the days shall be lighter, 
And the ways that were dark ways be plain, 

And the stars where thou art shall be brighter 
For Baby Helene. 



THE DWARF OF MYTILENE. 

There dwelt in Mytilene once, 

By the iEgsean sea, 
A little wrinkled, dwarfish man, 

No uglier could there be ; 
But a very prince of ferrymen, 

And stout of limb was lie. 

No man had ever vainly dared, 

No woman feared to go, 
To any island in that sea, 

Whatever winds might blow, 
If only Phaon's boat were there, 

And Phaon's self, to row. 

For men have seen him when the waves 

Grew loud and thick apace, 
When wild winds blew from Asia's sides, 

And storms came down from Thrace, 
Sail out as if to dare their rage, 

And fight them face to face. 



THE DWABF OF MYTILENE. 91 

And yet a life of woe was his, 

On land or stormy main ; 
No bright eyes ever on him smiled, 

No sweet voice called his name ; 
In snn, or shade, or storm, or calm, 

His days were all the same. 

Proud maidens of the Lesbian Isle, 

Proud men of high degree, 
Curled their cold lips, and passed him by, 

As one unfit to be ; 
And children shouted, "See, he comes, 

The old man of the sea." 

One day in the sweet summer-time, 

There came across the hills 
The kindly lowing of the herds, 

The songs of many rills, 
And the old man leaned him on his oar, 

And thought upon his ills. 

He thought of those proud Lesbian dames, 
And those proud-hearted men — 

He cursed his bitterness of fate, 
He cursed the gods, and then 



92 THE DWAMF OF MYTILENE. 

Wished that the sun that saw him born 
Had never shone again. 

He dropped his oar, he crossed his arms, 

When o'er the sands apace 
A step drew near. He turned and saw 

A fair young woman's face — 
No maiden was there like to her 

In all the Lesbian race. 

" O, who art thou, thou queenly maid ? 

From whence now mav'st thou be?" 
"I am the Queen of Love," she said: 

" Wilt bear me o'er the sea? 
For yonder, on that island fair, 

Adonis waits for me." 

O, never yet had ferryman 

A passenger so fair, — 
O, never had the sun shone on 

So strangely matched a pair, 
As wrinkled Phaon at the oars, 

And Venus smiling there. 

The boat went up, the boat went down, 
Forward and forward still, 



THE DWARF OF MYTILENE. 93 

While Phaon stood behind the oars, 

And worked with mighty will. 
And Mytilene's lights grew dim, 

On every tower and hill. 

The land was reached, the harbor passed, 

The goddess sprang on shore. 
" What shall I pay, good ferryman, 

Since thou hast brought me o'er ? " 
And Phaon, bowing, answered her, 

" Thy smiles, and nothing more." 

" A woman's smiles," the goddess said, 

" May come or go at will, 
They slay as often as they bless, 

Nor pity when they kill. 
But thou shalt have a richer fate, 

A dowry better still." 

She touched the girdle at her side, — 
Transformed, the old man stood, 

The fairest mortal ever seen 
On the iEgeean flood — 

A dwarf, in one sweet moment made 
The equal of a god. 



ECHO. 

There was a young nymph Echo, once, 
Employed by thundering Jove, 
To entertain his queen at home, 
Whene'er he wished to rove ; 

To talk, and talk, and talk with her, 

And keep her mind away, 

Whilst he with nymphs and goddesses 

Went sporting many a day. 

Thus hours and days, the legends tell, 
Good Juno's king was gone, 
And little did the queen suspect 
What errands he was on : 

For by her side, incessantly, 

In court or pleasant walk. 

Fair Echo laughed and gave no time 

For anything but talk. 

She talked poor Juno mad almost, 
Until by her 't was seen 

94 



ECHO. 95 

It was a ruse of Jupiter 

To blind an injured queen : 

When turning on the nymph, she cried, 
" Far shall my vengeance reach, — 
Behold ! false maid, from this time forth 
Thou shalt be robbed of speech." 

She touched her with, her wand, and lo ! 

The sweet nymph's tongue was fast — 

Of others' words she still had voice 

To echo back the last ; 

But from her own sad, swelling heart, 
No word might ever come, — 
In burning pain, or thrilling joy, 
Still were her own lips dumb. 

Through field, and grove, and silent wood, 
She wandered here and there, 
And meeting with Narcissus once, 
She loved the stripling fair. 

But what is love unspoken worth, 

Or lips to silence wed ? — 

Though she was young, and fair as 
young, 

Narcissus saw and fled. 



96 ECHO. 

Grieving, she wept, and turned her face, - 

She heard the ring-dove moan, 

Oh ! pity, pity, pity love 

Forsaken by its own. 

And up and down, and far and wide, 
She walked, and sadly wept, 
And she was like some lily fair 
Whereon the frost had slept. 

Oh ! never, never such a maid 
In the wide world was seen, 
As Echo, sorrowing up and down, 
By wood and meadow green ; 

And her fair body pined, and grew 

Like to the air, so thin — 

The sunshine found no cheek to kiss. 

No heart to enter in. 

Like to the mem'ry of a dream 

She grew, and faded, till 

Nought but her echoing voice was left, 

To gladden wood and hill ; 

And half ashamed, and half afraid, 

Like to some naiad queen 



ECHO. 97 

She hid herself among the rocks, 
And nevermore was seen. 

The wild birds sought her on the hill, 
The huntsman on the plain — 
She laughed, and mocked, and cried, but still 
Was never seen again, — 

But summer evenings, schoolboys "hear, 

In woods and valleys fair, 

The nymph, whom Juno's vengeance 
turned 

Into an echo there. 



THE KISS OF JUPITER. 

In ages past, when Jupiter 

Was wandering here and there, 

He peeping in a temple saw 
Sweet Io bent in prayer, 

And quite forgetful of his wife, 
He kissed the maiden fair. 

A rousing kiss it must have been, 

Resounding far and near. 
For Juno on Olympus heard, 

And hurrying through the air, 
Threw wide the temple doors and stood 

Before the guilty pair. 

One look on Jupiter she cast, 
One on the maid, — and lo ! 

She turned her with her wand into 
A heifer white as snow — 

With Argus, hundred-eyed, to watch 
Wherever she might go. 



THE KISS OF JUPITEB. 99 

And up and down, and far and wide, 

Go where the poor cow will, 
That curs&d herdsman follows her 

By field, and wood, and hill : 
By day, by night, his hundred eyes 

Are burning on her still. 

One day, in pity, Jupiter 

Bade Mercury repair 
And find the herdsman in the woods, 

Who kept the heifer fair, 
And, though he had a thousand eyes, 

To slay him then and there. 

With flute and lyre flies the god 

Through woods and tangled ways — 

The herdsman sees him by the brook 
And listens while he plays ; 

For every song the sweet boy sings 
Is in the herdman's praise. 

Enchanted music fills his ear : 

By flattery's strains misled, 
He sleeps upon the dewy grass, 

Nor cunning foe doth dread, — 



100 THE KISS OF JUPITER. 

The god beholds the drooping eyes, 
And strikes the herdsman dead. 

Rejoiced, the heifer sprang away, 

Released from Argus' eye, 
And hoped in wider fields to range, 

And greener grass to try — 
But lo ! beside her, day and night, 

There buzzed a mighty fly. 

Enraged, the wife of Jupiter 
Had seen her herdsman slain, 

And sent the gad-fly to the cow, 
To sting her into pain, 

And bade it ever follow her, 

Through wood, and held, and plain. 

Through many fields the poor cow ran, 
Through weary forests wide, 

O'er many straggling brooks she leaped, 
And plunged through many a tide ; 

Yet was that cursed dragon-fly 
Still buzzing at her side. 

It followed her through Macedon, 
It followed her through Thrace ; 



THE KISS OF JUPITEB. 101 

It buzzed in many distant lands ; 

It stung in many a place ; 
And north or south, or east or west, 

That fly was on the chase. 

She swam the bounding Bosporus, 
It stung and buzzed the while, 

On right and left, behind and front, 
For many a weary mile, 

Till, wretched with the horrid race, 
She plunged into the Nile. 

While struggling with the flood, behold ! 

Eternal Jove was there, 
And with his wand transformed his love, 

Into a maiden fair ; 
The same whom he had kissed one morn. 

In temple nave at prayer. 

And lo ! a king was waiting her. 

By Jupiter's command, 
He sprang into the flood and took 

The sweet maid by the hand, 
And made her mistress of his heart 

And queen of all the land. 



102 THE KISS OF JUPITER. 

And ever, when the new moon rose, 

It was a fancy there, 
The snow-white cow's two horns were seen, 

And Io, young and fair ; 
And maidens loved to hear how Jove 

Once kissed her, when at prayer. 



ON A FAIR DEAD GIRL, 

How beautiful to die as does the rose, 
Sweet fragrance casting on the am'rous air I 
What if too lovely seemed life's way to close, 
When death still leaves us with a scene so 
fair. 

Like to the rose thy life was one sweet 

bloom, 
Till Fate undid thee from the fair young 

stem ; 
It is not fit, this silent pall and plume, 
These weeping maidens, and these sorrowing 

men. 

Thou hadst fair youth, and life's sweet things 

the best, 
Knew naught of Sorrow, or its lonely consort 

Pain; 
Thou hadst the joys of life — leave us the 

rest, 
Who well have known how much of life is 

vain. 



104 ON A FAIB DEAD GIBL. 

Thy cup, half finished, flushed with joyous 

wine, 
The sad dregs at its bottom thou didst never 

reach ; 
Thy night of revels had no morn's repine, 
No aching heart, no long-regretted speech. 

Thou didst not live the ignomy to own 

Of beauty faded, or of roses fled ; 

Thy cheeks, they paled not, ere the buds 

were blown, 
Thou wert not fairer when thou lived, than 

dead. 

Death is no victor thus — we will not weep ! 
Thou walk'st in other paths of beauty now, 

more strange ; 
It is not Death we eall this thing, but Sleep ; 
No parting this, but Beauty's secret change. 



MY WHITE ROSE AND RED. 

So you've come from the South, have you, 
darlings ? 

And slept snug as mice all the way ? 
And was n't it cold on the mountains, 

For rosebud, and myrtle, and bay ? 
And she packed you up so together, 

And blessed you, and kissed you, and said, 
u Keep sweet as my memory for him is, 

My darlings, my white rose and red." 
And what did she tell you at parting ? 

Some message for me, I know well ; 
Some praise of our boy, there, God bless him ! 

Some words of our sweet little Nell. 
And the dear tiny hands of the children, 

Have they touched your petals so fair ? 
O, rosebuds, you 're happy if Helen 

But kissed you one moment, when there ! 
This white rose shall bloom in the study, 

This red one I '11 wear on my breast, 



106 MY WHITE ROSE AXD BED. 

O, I wonder if she will be thinking 

How often your petals are pressed ? 
Did she tell you how long we 've been 
married ? 

Ten years — 't is another year, soon, — 
And though we 've had snow in December, 

We 've always had roses in June. 
How far it is here from San Ilemo, 

The gem of the beautiful sea ! 
But you've come with your petals all Ira- 
grant 

With incense, from her unto me. 
How strange it all is; and her letter — 

This much and this only it said : 
" The children are well here, and happy, 

And my love's like the white rose and 
red." 
I '11 write her no letter to-morrow, 

But something I '11 send her instead — 
Two rose leaves, — she '11 guess at their 
meaning, 

One each from the white rose and red. 



THE MARRIAGE OF THE FLOWERS. 

"It is six," the swallows twittered, "and 
you're very late in rising, 
If you really think of rising on this lovely 
morn at all; 
For the great red sun is peeping over wood 
and hill and meadow, 
And the unmilked cows are lowing in the 
dimly lighted stall." 

O, ye robins and ye swallows, thought I, 
throwing back the lattice, 
Ye are noisy, joyous fellows, and you 
waken when you will; 
Then I saw a dainty letter, bound in ribbon- 
grass and clover, 
That the swallows had left swinging by 
the narrow window-sill. 



108 THE MARRIAGE OF THE FLOWERS. 

O, the dainty, dainty letter, on an orange 
leaf, or lemon, 
Signed, " Yonr friend, the Queen of Roses," 
writ in characters of dew, 
" You 're invited to the garden, there 's a good 
time there at seven, 
And a place beside the apple-tree has been 
reserved for you. 

" There '11 be matings there, and marriages, 
of every flower and blossom : 
Cross the brook behind the arbor, and 
come early, if you can." 
O, my thoughts, they all went bounding, 
and my heart leaped in my bosom, 
"And how sweetly she composes," I re- 
flected as I ran. 

There she sat, the Queen of Roses, with her 
virgins all about her, 
While the lilacs and the apple-blooms 
seemed waiting her command. 
O how lovely, O how gracious, she did smile 
on each new-comer ! 
O how sweet she kissed the lilies as she 
took them by the hand ! 



THE MABBIAGE OF THE FLOWERS. 109 

Never had I seen her fairer than she was this 
happy morning, 
Never knew her breath delicious, half so 
boundless, half so rare ; 
Oh ! she seemed a thing of heaven, with the 
dew upon her bosom, 
And I wished I were some daffodil, that I 
might kiss it there. 

All at once the grass rows parted, and the 
sweetest notes were sounded, — 
There was music, there was odor, there was 
loving, in the air ; 
And a hundred joyous gallants, robed in 
holiday apparel, 
Danced beneath the lilac-bushes with a 
hundred maidens fair. 

There were tulips, proud and yellow, with 
their great green spears beside them ; 
There were lilies grandly bowing to the 
Rose Queen as they came ; 
There were daffodils so stately, scenting all 
the air of heaven, 
Joyous buds, and sleepy poppies, with 
their banners all aflame. 



110 THE MABBIAGE OF THE FLOWERS. 

There were pansies robed in purple, marching 
o'er the apple-blossoms, 
And the foxgloves with their pages tripped 
coquettishly along ; 
And the violets and the daisies, in their 
bonnets blue and yellow, 
Joined the marching and parading of th' 
innumerable throng. 

All at once the dandelion blew three notes 
upon his trumpet : 
"Choose ye partners for the dancing, gal- 
lant knights and ladies fair ! " 
And the honeysuckle curtsied to the }'Oung 
sweet-breathed clematis, 
And remarked upon the sweetness of the 
blossoms in her hair. 

" We 're the tallest," said the tuberose to the 
iris standing nearest, 
"And suppose that now, for instance, I 
should offer you my heart ? " 
" O, how sudden ! " cried the sly thing ; 
" I 'm really quite embarrassed, — 
Unexpected, but pray do it, just to give 
the rest a start." 



THE MABBIAGE OF THE FLO WEBS. Ill 

Then a daisy kissed a pansy, with its jacket 
brown and yellow, 
And a crocns led a thistle to a seat beside 
the rose ; 
And the Maybells grouped together, close 
beside the lady-slipper, 
And commented on her beauty, and the 
splendor of her clothes. 

" O, a market this for beauty ! " said a 
jasmine, gently clinging 
To the strong arm of an orange, as a glance 
on him she threw ; 
"Why, you scarcely would believe it, but 
I ve had this very morning 
Twenty offers, and declined them just to 
promenade with you." 

So, in groupings, or in couples, led each 
knight some gentle lady, 
Led some fair companion blushing, past 
the windows fresh and green, 
And the Sweet Rose gave her blessing, and 
a kiss at times, it may be, 
To the fairest brides and sweetest mortals 
eye hath ever seen. 



112 THE MABBIAGE OF THE FLO WEBS. 

Then again the grass it parted, and the 
sunshine it grew brighter, 
Till it seemed as if the curtains of high 
heaven were withdrawn, 
And each flower and bud and blossom pressed 
some fair one to its bosom, 
As the bannered train danced gayly *twixl 
the windows on the lawn. 

O, the muskrose was so stately ! and so 
stately was the Queen Rose ! 
And how sweetly smiled she on me, as she 
whispered in my ear : 
•"Come again! you know you're welcome! 
come again, dear, for, it may be 
That our baby buda and blossoms will be 
christened here next year.'' 



ROOM FOR THE ANGELS. 

Far away by the Indus River, 

Where the mornings are gold and red, 

The mourners walk together, 

And bury their silent dead, 

In couples and in silence, — 

But ever a place ahead 

Is left unfilled and honored, 

As that where the angels tread. 

'T is a fancy, old as their river, 
That, whenever they bury their dead, 
The noise of wings is near them, 
And light forms marching ahead, — 
So ever before the mourners, 
And close to the pall and plume, 
'T is a beautiful heathen custom 
To make for the angels room. 

113 



114 BOOM FOB THE ANGELS. 

I 've thought if some, not heathen, 
Would make, in their worldly care, 
Just room in their hearts for angels, 
They would sometimes find them there. 
If but in some nook or corner, 
Filled up with the smallest things, 
'T were a joy to be sometimes hearing 
The rustle of angels' wings. 



IF YOU WANT A KISS, WHY, TAKE IT. 

There 's a jolly Saxon proverb, 

That is pretty much like this — 
A man is half in heaven, 

When he has a woman's kiss. 
But there 's danger in delaying, 

And the sweetness may forsake it ; 
So I tell you, bashful lover, 

If you want a kiss, why, take it. 

Never let another fellow 

Steal a march on you in this, 
Never let a laughing maiden 

See you spoiling for a kiss : 
There 's a royal way to kissing, 

And the jolly ones who make it, 
Have a motto that is winning — 

If you want a kiss, why, take it. 

Any fool may face a cannon, 
Any booby wear a crown ; 



116 IF YOU WANT A KISS, WHY, TAKE IT. 

But a man must win a woman, 
If he 'd have her for his own. — 

Would you have the golden apple, 
You must find the tree and shake it ; 

If the thing is worth the having, 
And you want a kiss, why, take it. 

Who would burn upon a desert, 

With a forest smiling by ? 
Who would give his sunny summer 

For a bleak and wintry sky ? 
O, I tell you there 's a magic, 

And you cannot, cannot break it, 
For the sweetest part of loving 

Is to want a kiss and take it. 



THE MOWING. 

The clock has struck six, 

And the morning is fair, 
While the east in red splendor is glowing ; 
There is dew on the grass, and a song in the air, 

Let us up and be off to the mowing. 

Wouldst know why I wait, 

Ere the sunlight has crept 
O'er the fields where the daisies are growing? 
Why all night I 've kept my own vigils, nor 
slept ? 

'T is to-day is the day of the mowing. 

This day and this hour 
Maud has promised to tell 
What the blush on her cheek was half show- 
ing,— 
If she wait at the lane, I 'm to know all is 
well, 
And there '11 be a good time at the 
mowing. 

117 



118 THE MOWING. 

Maud's mother has said, 

And I '11 never deny, 
That a girl's heart there can be no knowing — 
Oh ! I care not to live, and I rather would 
die, 

If Maud does not come to the mowing. 

What is it I see ? 
'T is a sheen of brown hair, 
In the lane where the poppies are blowing. 
Thank God! it is Maud — she is waiting me 
there, 
And there '11 be a good time at the 
mowing. 

Six years have passed by, 

And I freely declare 
That I scarcely have noticed their going ; 
Sweet Maud is my wife, with her sheen of 
brown hair — 

And we had a good time at the mowing. 



JAMIE'S COMING O'ER THE MOOR. 

Jamie 's coming o'er the moor, 

Heaven smile, and good betide him ! 

I am rich and Jamie 's poor, 
But I love no one beside him. 

Jamie, Jamie, all the day, — 

I am thinking only of him ; 
June would not be June alway, 

If I did not see and love him. 

Twelve sweet months ago we met. 

Twelve sweet moons have been the token, 
Break, my heart, or else forget 

Jamie yet no word hath spoken. 

List ! 't is Jamie's voice I hear, 
One sweet voice of all the many. 

I shall have no longer fear, — 

Jamie cries, " I love you, Jeannie ! " 
no 



120 JAMIE'S COMING O'EB THE 210 OB. 

Jamie comes across the moor, 

Heaven smile, and love betide him ; 

Neither I nor Jamie 's poor, 

When I love no one beside him. 



MAID AND BUTTERFLY. 

{From the German.) 

A maiden idly wandered 

Through wood and cool retreat, 
And as she stopped to gather 

A nosegay from the heather, 
A butterfly passed by her, 

And kissed her lips so sweet. 

" O ! pardon," said the rover, 
" O ! pardon, maiden fair, 

I sought amid the flowers 
The honey that is ours, 

And took your red lips blooming 
For roses growing there." 

" For this time said the maiden, 

Forgiveness — it is by ; 
But I must beg to mention, 

And press to your attention, 
These roses are not blooming, 

For every butterfly." 



O, HOW SHALL I SING TO MY 
FAIR ONE? 

O, how shall I sing to my fair one ? 

O, how tune my harp to the best? 
Sweet south-winds, ye breathed on the rarest ; 

Ye knew not your treasure, O West, 
Wake, wake, ye red roses, half sleeping — 

Know ye that a fairer is there ? 
O primroses, primroses weeping ! 

Hast seen her — my own one, so fair ? 

O morning, rejoice in my gladness ! 

And breathe on my song but a tone : 
She will hear — she will hear it — and answer, 

And think the sweet music my own. 
O sunlight, that gladdens the hillside, 

O rainbows, that die in the sea — 
Thou lendest the robes of thy beauty, 

But think not thou 'rt fairer than she. 

122 



O, HOW SHALL I SING? 123 

O seas ! be ye glad in my gladness ! 

And hills, let me never in vain 
Call out to thy heart for an echo, 

Some sound that resembles her name. 
Stars brightly shine, bright on my treasure, 

And tell what ye dare not conceal — 
O winds, help my harp to some measure, 

To words that shall speak what I feel. 



UNDEE THE KOSE. 

She is not dead we love, 

She still is here ; 
Cross her white hands above 

Heart true and dear. 
With her new senses born, 

All things are fair ; 
Brighter the stars at morn, 

Sweeter the air. 

Bloom, rose, yellow rose, 

White rose, for her ; 
Scent every air that blows, 

Sweet balm and fir. 
Song-birds, singing still, 

Sing the old song ; 
Thrush, lark, and whippoorwill, 

Sweet notes prolong. 

Shine, mornings, sweet and fair — 
Shine as ye shone ; 

124 



UNDER THE ROSE. 125 

She breathes your scented air, 

Though she be gone. 
She sees the roses born 

With her new eyes ; 
She sees the light of morn 

Burst in the skies. 

Speak, friends, in love of her — 

Speak, she is near ; 
What though no cloud may stir? 

Still she will hear ; 
Speak as ye spake before, 

Kindly and true ; 
There's but an open door 

'Twixt her and you. 

What though her body rest 

Under the sod ? 
He knoweth what is best — 

Trust her to God. 
Under the roses there, 

White rose and red, 
She breathes the sweeter air ; 

She is not dead. 



126 UNDER THE ROSE. 

She is not dead we love, 

She still is here ; 
Cross her white hands above 

Heart true and dear. 
Pray, friends, that when for you 

Life, too, shall close, 
You seem as kind and true, 

Under the rose. 



O MAIDEN, SO SLENDER AND FAIR. 

maiden, so slender and fair, 

And straight as the reeds by the sea : 

The rose in thy beautiful hair 
Is more than a rose unto me. 

Last night, when the stars were aglow, 
We walked on the terrace, and then 

You whispered this night I should know 
If I were most blessed of men. 

How queenly you look, and how rare ! 

My heart is ill-trained, and I can 
But look at that rose in your hair, 

And curse every daughter of man. 

Walk down the bright aisles of the hall, 
So tall and so stately, — perchance 

Your eyes may not meet mine at all, 
But I shall see you in the dance. 

127 



128 MAIDEN, SO SLENDEB AND FAIB. 

And if, when he touches your hand, 
My dagger shall leap from my side, 

Ah ! better the rage of the damned 
Than the wrath of a lover denied. 

Oh ! never you dreamed I was near, 
To-day, when you met at the train — 

'T was little, I grant, I could hear, 
But that little 's undoing my brain. 

I saw him reach over and break 

This very same rose that you wear, — 

" Tonight, at the ball, for my sake," 

Were the words that he uttered, I swear. 

What? waited to see would lie kiss 

The lips I had dreamed would be mine, - 

Enough ! there is murder in this ! 

And the rose in your hair is the sign. 

Yes, maiden, walk down the bright aisle, 
'T is gay here and light as the moon, 

His eyes will keep time with your smile, 
And his feet with the flute and bassoon. 



MAIDEN, SO SLENDER AND FAIR. 129 

By Heaven ! they 're coming this way ; 

And dares she to smile on me still? 
Your brother I — - what is it you say ? 

Your brother — just back from Brazil ! 

Your pardon ! this room has no air — 
Come, walk on the terrace and then — 

Ah ! sweet is that rose in your hair, 
And I 'm the most blessed of men. 



IN LIBBY. 

I HEAR the music of the bells 
Float out upon the summer air — 

Now, like the sea their chorus swells, 
Now, faintly, as the breath of prayer ; 

Yet lingering still as if to bless 
My heart within its loneliness. 

The tide comes up from out the bay, 

The sails ride to and fro ; 
I stand and watch them all the day. 

Out on the stream below ; 
But bending sail, nor flowing sea, 

Brings one sweet word of joy to me. 



130 



MY VIOLET. 

She is not here, my violet, 
My Maybell sweet, my mignonette, 
And so my eyes are often wet, — 
She is not here, my violet. 

But over there, where ever swells 
Each bud and bloom in heavenly dells, 
Like nightingale she sings and tells 
Our love to the sweet asphodels. 

And where the sweet stars ever shine 
On jasper seas and hills divine, 
I '11 know her by love's constant sign, 
And see her still and call her mine. 

I hear her to the blossoms hum : 

" In the bright days, he, too, will come ; " 

And so with eager lips, half dumb, 

I only wait that I may come. 

131 



132 MY VIOLET. 

It little matters where I be 

For a few years, on lake or lea, 

For through the gates ajar I see 

My brown-haired maid still waiting me. 

And sometimes when the stars are set, 
And sweet Maybells with dews are wet, 
I '11 close my eyes and go and get 
My brown-haired love, my violet. 



THERE IS A MAIDEN WHOM I 
KNOW. 

There is a maiden whom I know, 
Some sweet six summers old or so ; 
And to my chair she climbs to throw 
Her soft arms round me lovingly. 

There is no maiden in the town . 
With lips so red, or hair so brown, 
Or cheeks so like the thistle's down, 
Nor one who is so loving me. 

Her eyes — bright eyes — I know I dare 
To say they are more sweetly rare 
Than any others ever were — 
And shine on me so lovingly. 

Bright eyes, brown hair, and red lips say 
A thousand sweet things every day, 
But most, in her dear childish way, 
How very much she 's loving me. 



134 THERE IS A MAIDEN. 

Perhape you know some little miss, 
So very sweet and like to this, 
Whom every day you fondly kiss 
And press to you so lovingly ? 

It little matters what her name — 
If Helen, Kate, or Maud, or Maine, 
Sweet child — dear one — *t is all the same, 
Press her and kiss her lovingly. 



IN A VINEYARD. 

When lads shall clamber 'mid the vines, 
And press the purple vintage down, 
And maids more rare than Rhenish wines 
Shall braid each rustic youth a crown, — 
O happy youth ! O happy maid J 
Who dance to Labor's music chime, — 
Well has your poet sweetly said : 
" God bless us in the vintage time." 



SONG. 

The sea hath its pearls so rare, 
The sky hath its stars so bright, 

The river is ever so fair, 

But I have my lover, my light. 

Oh ! truer than pearls and sea, 
And fairer than stars of night, — 

Oh ! better than all is he, 

My lover, my dream, my light. 

He 's coming ! I hear, I hear 

The voice of my brave, my knight ! 
There's joy when his step is near, 
My lover, my dream, my light. 



136 



IONE. 

Old Surrey's hills are dear to me, 

And Richmond's fields are fair, 
And many a bud unfolds its flower 

And leaves a sweetness there, — 
But fairest flowers that ever grew, 

Or sweetest bud that 's blown 
On Surrey hills will not compare 

With our sweet rose lone. 

The sun was bright the morn she came, 

At least we thought it shone, 
And all the birds they seemed to sing 

A welcome to lone. 
The dews that kissed the rose's breast 

The whole sweet night before, 
Still lingered for one look at her — 

What could they wish for more ? 



138 ione. 

lone, Ione, our sweet Ione ! 

Our youth renews in thee, 
While Surrey's hills and Richmond's fields 

Are very fair to see ; 
And Heaven's own doors are opened wide, 

The road has shorter grown ; 
Thou bring'st us one step nearer Him, 

Ione, our sweet lone. 



A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 

Six days and nights our gallant ship 
Sped o'er a lone and trackless sea ; 
And we had watched the sea-gulls skip 
Like arrows o'er the wave, and dip 
Their wings into its foam, while we 
Found in their freaks some company. 

We were a hundred there, and more 
From many lands, yet loved but one ; 
And we had longed to see the shore, 
The first faint mists of Labrador — 
To hear some far-off evening gun 
Proclaim the day, — the voyage done. 

It was so quiet there — at last, 
One bolder than the others led : 
" Why is this silence ? Let the past 
Be of the things that cannot last , — 
We are the living — not the dead." 
" Give us a song," the captain said. 



140 A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 

" Is there none here, not one, not one, 
With the divine Promethean fire, 
Can sing of deeds most nobly done : 
Of sieges lost, of battles won, 
Of knightly sons of knightlier sire, 
And wake to life the sleeping lyre ? 

"I do bethink me now, a man 

Sat amid the forward decks to-day — 

I do not think there ever can 

Be one again so old and wan. 

As he Avhose harp beside him lav." 

"Bring him," the others said, "to play." 

And soon an old man tottered in 
To where the lamps were all aglow ; 
The boatswain bore his harp for him — 
For he had thought it well a sin 
That one so old should helpless go ; 
'Tis good we treat our aged so. 

" Good friends," the boatswain said, "] bring 
The poet of the ship to you. 
Well he can play, and sweetly sing 
To this, his harp, whose every string 



A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 141 

Though tuned oft, yet, tuned anew, 
May cheer you for an hour or two." 

"Give me the harp," the singer said, 
And touched his weird hand to the lyre — 
And, lo ! the eye that seemed so dead, 
The form, whence life had almost fled, 
Brightened aneiv with living fire ; 
Forgot was age — forgot was pain — 
The old man lived the boy again. 

He swept the chords through many a strain, 
And sung of youth and love, till Ave, 
Like followers in his knightly train, 
Wept o'er his touching minstrelsy. 
Is it not true that men may be 
Made angels by some melody ? 

Have we not lived, at times, above 
The grov'ling earth and its complaints, 
On hearing some sweet tale of love, 
Some seraph-song of dying saints ? 
Has not some poet said that we 
Are chords in God's great harmony? 



142 A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 

" Enough — enough ! " the harpist said : 

" I sing no more of love's young dream, 

Of knightly deeds, of lovers wed, 

Of hours, of days, too quickly sped, — 

Mine is another, nobler theme — 

My Country — born midst blood and tears. 

Grown sacred by its hundred years. 

'T is not so long ago, that men — 

Brave men, who feared not storm or sea — 

Crossed to the new-born land of Penn, 

Without one thought but to be free : 

Brave men, good men as well, were they 

Who fearless sought the dang'rous way 

To Plymouth Rock, to Florida — 

Men who could fight, as well as pray, 

Nor asked what else their fate might be 

In that fair land beyond the sea, 

So that it brought them liberty. 

" They came — and soon their axes rung 
By many a lake and tangled wood ; 
And midst their labors, lo ! they sung, 
For God was in their solitude. 
Their struggles none but He may tell, 



A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 143 

Who watched them on their dang'rous way; 
How by the lurking foe they fell, 
Yet trusted him, and said : ' 'T is well, 
He leads us to the coming day.' 

" The panther slunk into his lair, 
The she-wolf hid within her den, 
And there was peace and plenty there, 
For God had blessed the hands of men. 
Lo ! Towns, and States, and Cities rose, 
And flocks were fed in every glen, — 
It was the bloss'ming of the rose, 
For God had blessed the hands of men. 

" O, would that Peace might ever rest 
Her blessed wings on every shore ! 
Then were mankind divinely blest, 
And men should learn of war no more. 
Pray, pray, for that good hour in store, 
When men shall learn of war no more. 

" O England ! England ! tell us where, 
Where had we wronged thee? how? or 
when ? 



144 A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 

Hadst thou forgot thy children there, 
Although thy children, yet were men ? 
Hadst thou forgot that clime and sea. 
And growing years, bring wider range , — 
A larger hope, a destiny 
That laws or wars can never change ? 

"Thy armies came — thy navies flung 
Their flag o'er many an inland sea — 
And soon the hills of England rung 
With shouts and thanks for victory : 
With shouts and thanks, but echoing there, 
The answer came from swamp and glen, 
'You've driven the tiger to his lair — 
God help you when he comes again !' 

"Towns, cities blazed ; barefooted men 
Tramped where our Western rivers flow; 
They left their marks behind them, then, 
In bloody lines on frozen snow. 
'T was death — aye, more to them, but know 
Men oft'nest earn their freedom so. 

" Orphans and widows wept in vain, 
And armies sank for want of bread; 



A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 145 

Death stalked through every wood and plain, 
And fields were left unharvested. 
Still would they yield not — No, beware ! 
God's will is worked through man's despair. 

" Days, months, and years, they wavered not, 

Nor asked the number of their foe ; 

By wounds, by death, they cheaply bought 

The rights that tyrants would not know, — 

The fairest right — to die to be 

The fathers of men's liberty. 

" They conquered, and a nation sprung 
To life, to greatness, in the West ; 
And the wide world her praises sung, 
She was the freest and the best ; 
She was the freest, and the one 
Whose soil no tryant dared to tread — 
For, lo ! above, about her, shone 
The mystery of her sacred dead. 
Fate chose but one — that one was she — 
To lead mankind to liberty. 

" It is a century since then — 
A hundred years to-day, and men 



146 A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 

Tell all the old tales o'er again ; 
How she was born, our land, how bred, 
And how the life her children led, 
By faith and peace was hallowed ; 
How well she kept her promised vow 
To lead the way — to help the oppressed 
Of every land and clime, and how 
Men worshiped her, and she was blest : 
How commerce came, and all that Fate 
Ordains to glorify a State 
Waited on her, and she was great ; 
Each wind thai blew, cadi sail thai bent. 
Seemed like some gift divinely sent 
To help enrich a continent. 
The world was envious, too — but, no! 
Kings could not stop what Fate had told ; 
Hills, rocks, unbound themselves, and lo ! 
Their breasts are filled with oil and gold. 

" What more ? The land was blest and grew 

Like Eden, fair — but never knew 

Like it, she nursed a tempter, too. 

A tempter — black, fit child of hell — 

He came — and half the nation fell. 



A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 147 

They fell, and where the daisies grew, 

Lo ! cannon belched their poisonous breath — 

And war her red-mouthed trumpet blew, 

And wedding morns saw nights of death. 

The hand of Fate lay heavy then, 

For God had cursed the ways of men. 

"Dark months and years the storm-cloud 

swept 
Her course across a widowed land — 
But lo ! the God of battles kept 
The nation in his pitying hand. 
At last, at last, the burning smoke 
Faded before her silent guns, 
But louder than her cannon spoke 
The shroudless bodies of her sons. 
Weep, fading clouds — speak, silent guns, 
And honor these her fallen ones ! 
Dead was the tempter — dead the past, 
And men forgot their burning hate, 
For hates and angers cannot last 
With men whose foes were good, or great. 
Sleep on, ye braves, ye shroudless ones ! 
Men may not ask which side ye stood; 



148 A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 

Enough, ye were the nation's sons, 
And ye are dead, and God is good. 
It little recks where men have stood, 
When Heav n forgives, and God is good. 

"Again the peaceful lilies bloom, 

And kiss the graves of friend and foe; 

Again, again, the busy loom 

Sends its dear music to and fro ; 

Again the hills are gold and red. 

With shocks and sheaves on every hand, 

For all the fields are harvested. 

And there is plenty in the land, — 

Plenty and peace, for God again 

Has smiled and blessed the hands of men. 

"And now, where once the wigwam stood 
Upon the Schuylkill's banks of green, 
Where redd'ning vines and tangled wood 
Hemmed in the fair but dang'rous scene — 
Behold ! a palace fit for kings 
Lifts its fair head unto the skies. 
And all the land her tribute brings, 
And shouts aloud : ' Friends all, arise, ! 



A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 149 

This day, this hour, this place must be 
Made sacred to men's liberty.' 

" And here, where all have met to see 

The earth's united rivalry 

In all that is, or yet may be, 

They reached their hands to each, and said : 

4 This is the tribute to our dead — 

This is the ring with which we wed 

The twice-born bride, Columbia — 

And this the oath, new-sworn, to thee, 

Land of our hopes and destiny.' 

Again the old, time-honored scroll, 

Whereon the New World's faith was writ, 

Was shown to men, and every soul 

Thanked God, and wept at sight of it, — 

Thanked God, and wept — it was a sight 

Such as men see but once in life. 

I saw it then — I saw its birth — 

What more can one then want on earth ? " 

All night our ship sped on its way, 

Along a moonlit, starlit sea, 

And when the red sun brought the day, 



150 A CENTENNIAL IDYL. 

The sailors shouted " Land ! " — and we 
Looked to the West, and smiling there 
Lay the low hills of Delaware ; 
Loud fired the guns — the ship-bells rung 
It was the land the poet sung. 

Land of the West — our Fatherland ! 

We bow and greet thee here at sea ; 
We bare our heads, and meekly stand, 
And pray that God in his right hand 
May ever keep thee great and free, — 
May ever keep thee great, and when, 
Tli' oppressed shall cry for liberty, 
Thy Stars and Stripes shall answer them: 
Lo ! here, all men, all men are free. 



GYPSY GIRL'S SONG. 

They 're waiting for me in the forest, 
To lead the first reel on the grass : 

The hare-bells will spring at my coming, 
The lilies will how as I pass. 

I care not for palace or city, 

My home is th$ home of the free — 

The birds are my playmates in summer, 
My music 's the song of the sea. 

All day with my arrows and quiver, 
I Avander by meadow and spring ; 

And the birds are repeating forever, 
The words of the song that I sing. 



151 



THE NATION'S DEAD. 

Hail to the dead — the nation's dead — 

Who sleep by wood and field and shore ! 
To them we come with loyal tread 

And kneel beside their graves once more. 
With notes of bugle-song and drum, 

With flying flags and sweet Mayflowers, 
And grateful hearts, again we come 

To deck these soldier graves of ours. 

With hopes undimmed by flying years, 

And faith renewed by the great past, 
We see amidst our funeral tears 

The glory that was born to last. 
Once more beside each verdant grave 

We gather, and with pride recall 
How heroes' blood alone could save, 

How heroes' sons alone could fall. 



THE NA TION ' S DEAD. 153 

And lifting up the veil of years, 

We hear again the nation's cry — 
Its dark distress, its anguished fears, 

Its wail for help — for men to die. 
We se"e the tramping thousands come, 

Their tents shine white on every field ; 
The nation's heart, it is not dumb, 

It cannot fail, it will not yield. 

No longer spears and battle-blades 

To pruning-hooks and staves are bent ; 
From farms and hills and far-off glades 

The dreadful news is quickly sent ; 
And sounds of drams and clanging steel 

And braying horns are in the air, 
And quick the pulse of men who feel 

Their own heart's blood is flowing there. 

And there are partings none may tell, 
And faces paled and lips all dumb, 

And broken hearts in one farewell 
To those who go, but never come. 

Like to the torrent bounding down 
From some tall mountain to' the sea. 



154 THE NATION'S DEAD. 

From shop and village, farm and town, 
Comes the young nation's chivalry. 

And once again is heard the cry 

Of squadrons charging to the death, 
And bombs and shells go shrieking by, 

Borne on the red-hot cannon's breath : 
And fierce and far o'er Southern fields, 

Like the dread sea to terror blown. 
Comes the fierce foe that never yields. 

Or yields to death, and death alone. 

On ! on ! we hear the battle's din, 

" On ! on ! " we hear our leader's erv ; 
"There is no way but Death's to win " — 

"On! on!" the bugles make reply, — 
With Farragut among the shrouds. 

Wherever Danger's signals be, 
With Hooker fighting in the clouds, 

With Sherman marching to the sea. 

" On ! on ! " — we hear them once again 
Shout back the fierce old rebel yell ; 

And though from ships and ramparts rain 
The sulphurous smoke, the fire of hell, 



THE NATION'S DEAD. 155 

Still on, until the withering blast 
Is silenced like the trampled dead, 

And fair as morning shines at last 

The Stars and Stripes above their head. 

They sleep to-day in silent lines, — 

Heroic men, whom Fame hath lent 
The glory that forever shines, 

To be their lasting monument. 
And years and men may pass, but they, 

Shrined in their country's bosom, live 
In fairer forms than flesh or clay : 

The fitter forms that Fame can give. 

Sleep on, sleep on, heroic dead, 

It little recks what we may say, 
For there, beyond your narrow bed, 

Shines the new light, your better day ; 
And midst the music of the spheres 

That sounds the soldier's reveille, 
Where march and countermarch the years, 

Ye wait the Peace that is to be. 



AKIADNE. 

I walked by the yellow Tiber, 

Last night, when the sun was low, 
While all in the silent distance 

Grew soft with a purple glow ; 
And an odor of new-crushed poppies, 

And the smell of the lilies, crept 
Deep into ni}- veins, till, weary, 

I lay by the stream and slept. 

And stronger the odors pressed me, 

And a dream in my dream there came- 
The joy of a love's new greeting, 

Of lips that pronounced my name — 
Of a love that was more than mortal, 

Of cheeks that were godly fair ; 
And I knew that my Dionysius 

Was standing beside me there — 

Was standing, his eyes upon me, 
As once, on that other day, 



ARIADNE 157 

He touched with his wand, and loved me, 

And bore me with him away. 
My leopard sprang up to greet him, 

As I waked from the drowsy dream, 
With the arms of my new love round me, 

By the side of the Tiber stream. 

Oh ! come to me, Dionysius — 

I dreamed of the evils by, 
When Theseus, false and cursed, 

Had left me alone to die. 
? Twas the poppies that made me dream so, 

And the lilies you love the best — 
Oh ! kiss me, Dionysius, 

And hold me upon your breast. 

And deeper, still deeper, kiss me, 

Nor lessen your warm embrace, 
Till our love and our lips commingle, 

Like the blushes upon my face. 
Oh ! dream of my dream, I have you ; 

Look out from your coal-black eyes, 
For the light and the love they give me 

Were born of a Paradise. 



158 ARIADNE. 

Push back the curls from your forehead, 

And your cheek, be it close to mine, 
Till our hearts beat warm together, 

As our arms each other entwine. 
There, breathe in my soul one moment, 

For the touch of thy lips is worth 
A thousand of mortal's kisses — 

An age of the loves of earth. 

Oh ! life of my life, come near mo, 

Look into my eyes again, 
And closer, oh ! closer press me, 

For the love that is born of pain ; 
T swoon, but my eyes are open — 

I faint, but I see thy face — 
Oh ! happiness, born to woman, 

To be in a god's embrace. 

Come on to the sweet flute's playing, 
The feet that are drunk with dance. 

The loves, and the bacchant women, 
Who die, if without thy glance ; 

Lead on by the gardens blowing, 
By the meadows of sweet perfume, 



ARIADNK 159 

For where thy light breath toucheth, 
The beautiful roses bloom. 

Look ! look at the dancers coming, 

The train and the festal wine, 
The pans and the satyrs leading, 

The buds and the blossomed vine. 
Thus, thus, I will be immortal, 

My name in the bright stars set, 
With the marriage-crown you gave me 

The day that our kisses met. 



NOTES. 



Sherman's March to the Sea. 

This song, which has the honor of giving its name to 
the most picturesque campaign of the War, "The March 
to the Sea/' and was characterized by General Sherman 
himself as the shortest complete history of the same, 
was written one chilly morning in a little wedge tent at 
the rebel prison camp of Columbia, S. C, where Adju- 
tant Byers had the hard fate to be quartered, with some 
hundreds of fellow-prisoners. Meagre reports of Sher- 
man's leaving Atlanta had come through a daily rebel 
paper, which a kindly disposed negro stuffed into the 
loaf of bread furnished to a mess of the Union prisoners 
who were fortunate enough to have a little money to pay 
for it. Through its troubled lines the eager ears and 
eyes of the starved men read hope and coming freedom. 

Another prisoner, Lieutenant Rockwell, heard the 
poem and under the floor of the hospital building, 
where a number of musical prisoners quartered them- 
selves on mother earth, wrote the music. It was first 
sung by the prison glee club, led by Major Isett, where, 
intermingled with the strains of "Dixie " and kindred 
airs, to adapt it to rebel hearers, it was heard with ap- 
plause. By the fortune of war, the entry of General 
Sherman's victorious army into Columbia released Ad- 
jutant Byers from a fifteen months' captivity. General 
Sherman gave him a temporary position on his staff, 
and, later, sent him as the bearer of the first despatches 
North to General Grant and President Lincoln, announc- 
ing the victorious progress of his army through the Car- 
olinas. 

160 



NOTES, 161 

On reaching the North, Adjutant Byers was astonished 
to hear that his verses had preceded him, and had be- 
come popular as a song all over the country. The song- 
assumes the march to have commenced at Chattanooga, 
not Atlanta, and it is now well known that Sherman's 
hard-fought Atlanta campaign was by him intended as 
the first step for the ocean. 

The Ballad of Columbus. 

The fates seem to have conspired in making the life of 
Columbus romantic as well as great. There is not an in- 
cident mentioned in the ballad that does not find its au- 
thority in sober history. From the sudden eruption of 
the volcano on Teneriff e to the death scene in a little un- 
known Seville inn, each step of the voyager's life was as 
if done in a drama. 

The dearest wish of Columbus had been to secure 
great sums of money in the New World, to be used in 
equipping an army for the rescue of the Holy Sepulchre. 

Margery Brown. 

The London Lancet relates how a young girl, losing her 
lover, became insane, and lost all calculation of time. 
She never knew that she was growing older, and, believ- 
ing herself always young, remained so in appearance, 
and at seventy was as blooming as a girl of twenty. Her 
case was a psychological marvel, cited to prove the influ- 
ence of the mind over the body. 

Xeics atihe White House. 

During the battle of Chattanooga President Lincoln 
sat alone at a telegraph instrument listening to the great 
news as it was wired up to Washington. The assault, in 
which the writer took part, commenced as soon as Sher- 
man's troops had crossed the Tennessee River at Chick- 
amauga Creek. 



162 NOTES. 

The Guard on the Volga. 

Some years since, when the terrible plague was devas- 
tating parts of Asia, the Russians established a line of 
pickets along the Volga River to incercept travel, and 
thus check the march of the disease into their country. 

The Tramp of Sherman's Army. 

Recited at the reunion of the Army of the Tennessee 
in Cincinnati, September 26, 1889. General Sherman 
presided. All the then living generals of the great Army 
of the Tennessee were on the stage, and participated. 
The toasts for the occasion were printed on beautiful 
satin maps representing Sherman's greatest campaign, 
and their sentiments consisted of extracts and parts of 
verses from the Lyric of "Sherman's March to the Sea." 

It was General Sherman's last public appearance as 
President of the Society that comprised nearly all the of- 
ficers who had marched and fought "with him from Chat- 
tanooga to the ocean. 

The Nation's Dead. 

Written for, and recited at, the Decoration Day Ser- 
vices in Washington City, 1881. 

President Garfield was one of the participants. 



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